Something I Should Delete But Probably Won't
by Alactricity
Summary: Don't read it. Really, don't. 'Tis only my brief foray into the cliche and overdone, and I will hopefully never return.
1. Introduction

Hi guys! I j'adore the SYOT stories, and had to write one for myself. Oh, and I promise that, even if it takes months, I _will_ finish. Since this is a Quarter Quell, there's a twist - everyone who dies will be brought back as ... zombies! It's like the Capital is saying: "Even in death, we control you." I'll have more info on the zombie!tributes when the games actually began (although I will say - they can die. Er, re-die).

Interesting characters will be accepted _only_. If you're interested in creating mentors or stylists, or even if you have an arena idea, you can PM that to me separately. Please don't forget that guys are needed too. Thanks! This will be a Hunger Games to remember.

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**REMAINING SPOTS: **

None! :D

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Districts: (Yes, I did take the district list from HollyWrites2, don't accuse me of stealing).

**District 1: **Its industry is making luxury items for the Capitol. Due to the nature of its industry, it's considered the wealthiest district, the only other wealthier area being the Capitol itself. It is considered a career district.

**District 2: **The district's public presentation is that of stone quarries, but it also manufactures weaponry, trains, and supplies Peacekeepers. The main military in the district is known as the Nut. This district is sometimes called "the pets" of the Capitol. They are the biggest supporters of the Capitol therefore babied and given many extra conveniences.

**District 3: **District 3's primary industry is general electronics of many types, though it is known for also making various mechanical products such as automobiles and firearms. Thus, many of its residents are technically apt. It is not considered a career district even though district 4 is.

**District 4: **District 4's industry is fishing, thus most residents have experience using nets and tridents, making fishhooks from scratch, swimming, and identifying edible sea life. It is considered a Career district.

**District 5: **Although the series doesn't give district five an industry, I'm making the industry silver (mined). Members of district five will be good with metals, particularly silver, and are good at tunnelling. It is impoverished due to the high demand of silver leaves the district with little to go for food.

**District 6: **Although the series doesn't give district six an industry, due to the two quarter quell tributes being morphling addicts; my guess is that medicine is their industry. These people have excellent knowledge of different herbs and chemicals, yet are easily addicted and emaciated, often sick due to the capitol taking ALL of the medicine.

**District 7: **District 7's industry is lumber and many of its residents to have experience with hatchets, axes, saws, and other tree cutting tools.

**District 8: **District 8's principal industry is the production of textiles, and they have at least one factory that is primarily used for making Peacekeeper uniforms.

**District 9:** Although the series doesn't give district nine an industry, I'm making it a shoe making district. These tributes will be familiar with skinning and tanning animals/hides, good with hammers and lifting crates of shoes for other districts and for the Capitol.

**District 10:** the industry is livestock. These tributes will be accustomed to animals, what parts of meat are good, what parts aren't, and the spoiled states of food. They are good at roping and taming animals as well, and very strong from wrestling them all of their lives.

**District 11: **District 11's industry is agriculture-orchards and fields of grain and cotton surround the district. Almost everything grown is shipped directly to the Capitol. It is one of the poorest districts in Panem, second only to District 12. It is also one of the districts where the Peacekeepers are the strictest. Ironically, this directly results in its residents generally being malnourished and underfed despite its focus on agriculture.

**District 12: **District 12 is located somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains. Its chief industry is coal mining. The district has the distinction of being one of the poorest districts, if not the outright poorest, in all of Panem.

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Submission Form:

Full name: (I'd like to be able to pronounce it, please)

Preferred district:

Age (12-18):

Personality:

Appearance:

Background:

Strengths:

Weaknesses: (If your character is not a career and you mention a specific weapon, I will make sure they trip on said weapon and die).

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Maybe your character will win ... maybe not. But you'll never know unless you submit a tribute (or two!).

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	2. Final Tribute List

Hey guys. Here's the finished tribute list.

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**DISTRICT ONE:**

Female: Maya Jook (16)  
Male: Scene Decker (17)

**DISTRICT TWO:**

Female: Katalina "Lina" Witt (13)  
Male: Drampton Kraftus (18)

**DISTRICT THREE: **

Female: Seraphina Halliwell (16)  
Male: Weston "West" Blackwood (15)

**DISTRICT FOUR: **

Female: Maren Preswick (18)  
Male: Skippy Longshot (16)

**DISTRICT FIVE: **

Female: Jenna Leigh Bell (17)  
Male: Ezra Samuels (18)

**DISTRICT SIX: **

Female: Katara Mizu (14)  
Male: Toris Louro (17)

**DISTRICT SEVEN: **

Female: Aya Jansen (18)  
Male: Triston Enki (17)

**DISTRICT EIGHT: **

Female: Liesl Lisbon (15)  
Male: Crayne Lyde (17)

**DISTRICT NINE: **

Female: Kaaya Zeyher (15)  
Male: Steve Renbar (17)

**DISTRICT TEN: **

Female: Ava Weese (13)  
Male: Roland Albrecht (17)

**DISTRICT ELEVEN: **

Female: Dahlia Jaines (17)  
Male: Ant Kamper (16)

**DISTRICT TWELVE: **

Female: Kimberly Hope Kerner (15)  
Male: Jameson Smith Hender (14)

* * *

I definitely had to change some of the districts around, so, sorry about that. I already have the first chapter done, checked over by my beta and ready to be published. It should be up within an hour.

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	3. District One Reaping

A/N: My goal is to have an update up every Sunday at the least. Unless unforeseen variables come into the equation, this shouldn't be a problem. Oh, and in case you're wondering, this is how I'm going to set it up: four chapters on the reaping, four on the train ride, and four on the chariots. Then I'll have two training day chapters which alternate POV's, and two interview chapters (which also alternate POV's). I'll introduce sponsoring, and then, well ... let the games begin, eh?

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. The characters belong to you guys.

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**The 125th Hunger Games**  
**District One Reaping**

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**Maya Jook POV**

"Breakfast is done," Mom says, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and bacon in front of me. We're not well off for District One, so the eggs are always made out of powder. I can't stand them, and Mom knows it.

"I hate these eggs," I tell her bluntly. "They taste like rubbery throw up."

From beside me, Max whines, "My oatmeal is touching the bacon!"

Usually Mom takes the complaints without a word, but today her lips disappear into a straight line and her eyebrows burrow together. "You're welcome for breakfast," she says sarcastically.

"If you're going to bother to make breakfast then why can't you at least make something halfway decent?"

Mom throws the twisted dishrag on the counter. "If you're going to bother to open your mouth then why can't you at least say something halfway nice?"

Max pushes the oatmeal away from the bacon. "I don't mind anymore," he pipes up in a small voice. We both ignore him.

"Maybe if you got a better job we wouldn't have to eat this crap!"

"Maybe if I didn't have such a demanding daughter I would have more money!" Mom explodes. Then she realizes what she just said, and both hands cover her open mouth. "Maya, I ..."

I don't hear the rest of her sentence though**—**Instead, I grab Max by the wrist and half-drag half-lead him outside. When I wrench open the door, the knob comes off in my hands, and I throw it over my shoulder as we leave. My blood is cooling. Everything is in sharper clarity. I feel in control. I know anger blinds most peoples emotions, but for me, I never feel more in charge.

We're heading towards the center of town when I stop, crouching down to look Max in the eye. "You put your buttons on wrong again," I chastise to avoid talking about what happened back home, quickly fixing the mistake.

He grins, abashed but not embarrassing. He's so easily manipulated. "Only because I knew you'd fix it for me."

I roll my eyes. "Dork."

In other Districts, everyone gets _soooo _nervous, like, "oh, no, it's reaping day, run for the hills," but here in District One we have a little more dignity. Besides, on the off chance you're not a career and you get reaped, a more capable career will just volunteer. It happens every year.

Max prattles on beside me, but I'm not listening. Because this year? I'm the volunteering career. I've been channeling all my inner anger into my workouts, and they've done wonders. Well, for my training anyways.

The seats are almost all full when I send Max to the Twelves and I take my own seat in the Sixteens. Because I'm late, I'm stuck sitting next to Miss Priss and her stupid friends. "Um, excuse me." One of them taps me on the shoulder. "Could you move somewhere else? My friend kinda wants to sit here."

"How about no?"

She huffs, annoyed, which really sets me off because, hello, she's the one who started this conversation. I bare my teeth. She shudders and turns away. Smart girl.

The Mayor sends some stuff about the Capital, the escort introduces herself - seriously, who cares what her name is? - and some girl I've never met before has her name called. None of it matters. I don't care about any of these people.

"I volunteer." My voice is loud, and rings with authority.

It's only when he mounts the stage do I realize who volunteered for the guys, and for a moment I feel my blood still and cool over**—**like it does when I'm about to attack******—**but the moment passes and I wear my usual narrowed-eyes look. Who cares if Scene volunteered? Aside from his—yes, I admit it—good looks, he has absolutely nothing going for him.

If only I could have realized that three years ago.

But that's the past, and I don't dwell on things like that. Scene Decker will die, and I really couldn't care less. He's a horrible person and deserves it.

I tell the Peacekeeper not to allow any visitors. A halfhearted apology from Mom is the last thing I want—or need— right now.

* * *

**Scene Decker POV**

I swear to God, if Mom tries to smooth my hair down one more time, I will bite her.

"Scene," Mom fusses. "Look at your hair. It's sticking up everywhere!" She reaches one hand forward to slick back my hair, but I recoil. Doesn't she know this is how the ladies like it? Sometimes it amazes me how someone as stupid as her produced someone like me. I probably got most of my genes from Dad.

"Stop touching my hair!" I whine, and she slinks back, looking hurt. Good. Maybe she'll leave me alone now.

Dad sighs from the table. "Be nice to your mom."

"No," I say immediately.

Now Dad looks up. "Do you want to go to the training center? You're acting like you're PMSing, and sponsors won't like that."

I scowl again. All Dad ever thinks about is the Games. Training this, sponsors that. I am so over it. Part of me wants to volunteer just so I can get him off my back - sometimes literally. I never did enjoy sparring with him. "Would you two just shut up and stop bugging me? And I'm not PMSing!"

I leave before Dad can try and reprimand me, or worse**—**Mom starts crying. Ever since she found out this is the year I'm volunteering, she's taken to spontaneously bursting into tears. Annoying much? She acts like I'm going to die.

I'm early, so there's only a few people at the Seventeens section. They all acknowledge me, and a few girls wave me over, but they're ugly so I sit with my friend Rimmer instead.

"Hey."

He looks surprised. "Hey."

Okay, maybe I stretched the truth a bit when I said we're friends. I'm more popular and haven't said more then "do you have the homework?" to him before. Whatever. That's what happens when you're early. Blame my parents.

We fall into an easy conversation as the seats fill up. I see my current girlfriend and look away as she glares at me. She's been cramping my style lately, and that dress she's wearing is hideous. I don't even know why we're still going out. Would it be awful if I said I was secretly half-hoping her name would be called and she'd be reaped?

Our mayor, this real fat guy with a beard, waddles up to the stage and asks for silence. I only listen because I wouldn't mind being mayor myself someday.

"Out of the ashes rose Panem, blah blah blah, something about rebellion." That's not verbatim, but it's definitely what I - and everyone around me - hears. I didn't even listen to this speech the first time I heard it.

Everyone dutifully claps, and he waddles back into his seat. The escort doesn't look familiar, but I can't remember if she's new or not. In their goal to look different, they end up all looking the same: freakish, and odd.

"This is going to be the best year yet!" She trills into the microphone. "Yay for Quarter Quells!"

Dipping her hand into the glass fishbowl filled with names, she unfurls a white slip and reads, "Rose Kindly!" The words are barely out of her genetically-altered lips when a hand shoots up and a familiar voice volunteers. I recognize the girl instantly. Of all the people to volunteer**—**I curse, loudly, and a few people turn to stare at me. I ignore them (it's nothing new), and start to wonder if she knew this was the year I was volunteering and that's why she did, too. Maya always did have to have the last word.

If she thinks this is going to stop me, then I guess she doesn't know me as well as she thought she did.

"I volunteer!"

Her eyes widen, then narrow into the usual slits. What did I ever see in her? On stage, I give my name to the escort and, when she asks us to shake hands, promptly hold out my arm. I half-smirk, like, "you're not even worth the effort to fully smile." Gripping my hand, she squeezes my fingers together, and I try not to think about how familiar her palm feels in mine.

A Peacekeeper shows me to the holding rooms, and I debate on if I should allow visitors: Yes, and I could say a few words to my dad, which I kind of want to do. No, and I don't have to deal with a potentially weepy mother. I'm leaning towards yes when I realize they probably remember Maya. The last thing I want is for them to bring her up. Not that I care or anything, she's just always trying to steal my limelight and one-up me. Not this time.

"No visitors," I tell the guard outside the door.

Stretching out on the red couch, I fold my hands behind my hand and don't think about anything besides how easy the Games will be, even with this unforeseen twist. I definitely don't think about Maya. She may have been my first girlfriend, but she's still going to die in that arena. Who knows? I may even be the one to do it. It'd be a piece of cake, too, because I know all her weaknesses.

The reminder of how close we used to be makes me nostalgic. I mean**—**ill. It makes me feel ill.

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I hope I did everyones characters justice. And since I know cramming 24 completely new characters personalities into one story can be disastrous, I'll leave one adjective to describe each character that I've written so far at the end of every chapter. I want to be sure you can remember who each character is once we get past the introductions.

Maya—angry  
Scene—arrogant

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	4. District Two Reaping

A/N: Thanks for the kind words everybody. They really do inspire me to write faster. I hope this chapter lived up to expectations. Also: a BIG THANKS to my beta, Rue-the-Marauder, without whom this chapter would not be nearly as good.

Disclaimer: -insert witty disclaimer here-

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**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Two Reaping  
**

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**Katalina Witt POV  
**

You hear tales of heroic kids volunteering for the Games because they need the money for a sick sibling, a starving family. You see the careers training for glory and fame. Maybe you can even sympathize with the underdog who was reaped in a district with only the wind to volunteer.

What you don't ever hear about is the girl who trains for lack of anything better to do. That's me. With a father who couldn't care less and friends who don't exist, career-training for the games was just a fall back. Something to help pass the time. Fill the silence. Give my life ... purpose.

That's why I'm going to win. Because I have nothing better to do.

**—**

Okay, technically, the training center is closed on Reaping Day. You know, the whole, "everyone gets the day off" thing. That includes the unfortunates who wipe the sweat off the matted floor in the gym and supervise to ensure someone doesn't accidentally kill someone else. Since I'm training alone and don't need an unhelpful babysitter, I figure, what the heck. No one will know.

I can list the number of valuable things Dad has taught me on one hand and still have left over, but you can thank him for my breaking-and-entering skills. I was nine, the house was locked, and I didn't have a key. It doesn't take a District Three genius to figure out what happened next.

The last time I broke in through the window, I also broke a bone. Call me crazy, but I think I'm going to go the safe route and pick the lock on the door instead.

Once inside, I can't help but smile. Even hidden under the cover of darkness, even completely silent, even with only the balancing beams for company, this place feels more like a home to me then mine ever does.

**—**

I'm showering when the thought first comes to me: I should volunteer this year.

It makes sense. I'm in the prime of my life, I have nothing to lose—and, let's face it— no one will miss me anyways. I'm still debating on if I should volunteer yet or not—I am kind of young for a tribute—when I arrive in the center of town. I slip in unnoticed by the other Thirteens and finger the hole in my dress. Surrounded by girls in silky dresses, hair pinned back in elaborate up-do's, smiles white and shoes practically _gleaming_, I can't help but feel a bit awkward.

It doesn't help that I can hear them snickering.

"Look at her hair."

"Look at her _shoes_."

"Are you two blind? Look at her dress!"

While Girl #1 and Girl #2 may be blind, I'm certainly not deaf. I figure I'm just doing them a favor by letting them know.

"I can hear you, you know," I say mildly, like they weren't just insulting me.

#1 and #2 clam up, red splotches blooming like poppy flowers on their cheeks, but #3 just examines her—perfectly done, of course—nails. "Yeah, we know."

My hands clench into fists and I raise them threateningly—I'm not afraid to do it, either—when the Mayor asks for silence, and they look away.

Stupid girls. Stupid mayor. Stupid District full of stupid people who do stupid stuff. I didn't even brush my hair and still I look better then majority—if not all—of the pathetic girls here. Take the loser in front of me for example. Her hair looks like seaweed. While that look may work in District Four, here in District Two we like luxury. Glossy waterfalls of black hair. Like mine.

I'm working myself into such an internal fervor that some of it bubbles over, and I blurt, "You're just lucky we have to be quiet or I would have punched a hole in your face."

Still staring straight ahead, #3 whispers, "I'd like to see you try. Wimp."

Wimp! _Wimp!_ She called _me_ a wimp! I stand up so suddenly my chair tips backwards, and all eyes—and cameras—swivel towards me.

So I do the only thing I can do in a situation like this. Only, it doesn't come out as well as I hoped it would.

"Um ... I volunteer." I hate the way my voice curves upward at the end, like I'm asking a question, but what can I do but walk stiffly up to the stage?

_Oh well,_ I think. _I"ll be home in no time. _And then—then—I'll kick that girls ass from here to District Twelve. **  
**

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**Drampton Kraftus POV**

"Say, Drampton," Krofty slings an arm around my shoulder. I shove it off. "What do you want to do today?"

Replying only eggs him on, so I say nothing. I knew I should have shoved him in front of the car that passed. We aren't even to the center of town yet, and already I'm sick of his idiotic babbling.

"We could go to the park, play a round of soccer. Or pick up some chicks. I know how much you love them." He waggles his eyebrows, and they look like caterpillars come to life. "So, what's it gonna be?"

Abruptly, I stop walking. When Krofty turns to look at me, expression quizzical, I form a fist and punch him in the gut. Hard. He falls to the ground, too winded to even groan, and I continue my walk down the cobblestone path. Finally. Peace and quiet.

**—**

"Move." The other Eighteens trip over themselves in their haste to get out of my way. I want the seat closest to the isle, and if that means shoving another guy out of the chair, then so be it. If it were up to me, they would all be dead. Then I could sit wherever I please.

I sit in stiff silence until something happens of interest to me. A girl volunteers. A young girl. She is half my size, and I imagine crushing her head with my hands. I imagine it will sound like a lobster does when you crack it.

Suddenly, I'm hungry.

The capital freak reaches for a white slip from the boys bowl, but I stand up before he can even finishing reading the name on it. The name on that slip is unimportant.

"I volunteer."

On stage, everyone is at least half a head shorter then me. They are all weak. I must let them know. Grabbing the microphone out of the freaks hand—"Hey! Give that back!"—I tap it twice, and then look directly into the camera. One hand on the freaks forehead to keep him away, one hand curled around the cool metal of the microphone, I say, deadly calm, "I will kill every single tribute. I will rip you limb from limb. My eyes will be the last thing you see before you die. That is all."

And I know, as the freak beside me shudders and clutches the rescued microphone to his chest like a pathetic baby, that I have striked fear into every heart of Panem.

All in days work.

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Sorry it's so short guys, I couldn't think of what to write. I apologize if you never want to eat lobster again. =P Oh, and please don't expect daily updates, because I seriously doubt I'll be able to update every single day. I'll try, but I make no promises. We'll see.

Maya—angry  
Scene—arrogant  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless

Thanks for reading (and reviewing?)!  
- Alactricity


	5. District Three Reaping

A/N: Thanks to my beta, Rue-the-Marauder, for helping with this chapter. Thanks to my reviewers, cause you rock. And thanks to my Spanish neighbors, who helped me finish my Spanish homework so I could work on this story.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games still belongs to Suzanne Collins. The characters still belong to you.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Three Reaping**

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**Seraphina Halliwell POV**

The sun has spilled itself over the horizon again, a watery pallet of blue in the sky. Although weak, the mornings first rays sizzle against my skin, and I tilt my face upwards. There isn't a better feeling in the world**—**lying here on the dewy grass, propped up on my elbows, my breathing in time with nature around me. I long to never move from this spot. I don't want to face the reality of today.

"Seraphina!"

Even with my eyes closed, I know who's calling me. "Yes, Diesel?" My tone is neutral, my smile small. I am so peaceful. My limbs feel light and hollow, like a birds. As if I could lift up my arms and the wind would simply spirit me away.

"Mommy says it's time to come inside."

I lift myself up. For a dizzying moment I think I'm floating. "Yeah, okay."

Once inside, Mom shoves a dress, a pair of shoes, and a hairbrush in my hand. "I called you seven times! Don't you ever listen? We're going to be late! And look at your hair. It's a mess. Go. Now. Change." I'm jostled into the bathroom, where I make a face at Mom's hurried nature before changing into my best outfit.

The dress is the same yellow streaked in a sunset, the shoes gray, the heels worn down to stubs. It's pointless to try and style my curly brown hair, so I leave it down. Coupled with my translucent gray eyes, I look ethereal. Perhaps it's just the dim lighting, but ... I feel pretty. Maybe even beautiful.

Diesel and Clutch surround me the moment I step out of the bathroom, each dressed in their own version of Reaping Day best. "I like your dress," Clutch compliments shyly, looking up at me through long black lashes.

"Yeah," Diesel is eager to agree. "You look like a cupcake with curly frosting on top."

I laugh, grab both of their hands, and they follow me outside. I can hear Mom calling us now.

**—**

Another thing I don't like about Reaping Day**—**although the entire District is crowded into one square piece of land, it's as silent as the grave. I don't think it's natural. It's the kind of silence that says a lot without really saying anything.

My friends are on both sides of me, and I am almost drowning in this loud silence. I twirl a long stemmed newrose through my fingers, admire the petals, feel impatient for once. I wish the Mayor would just start talking already, but, despite Mom thinking we were going to be late, people are still trickling in from all sides.

Finally**—**_finally_**—**the Mayor recites the annual speech. I'm too nervous to listen properly. The leaves on the stem of the flower are starting to rub off on my fingertips I'm twirling it so often.

I blink, and our escort, a short woman who's name evades me, is sticking her hand into the bowl of names. A white slip is in her hand. She unfolds it, licks her lips, and then**—**

"Seraphina Halliwell! Please come on up!"

The stem snaps in half, and I can't help but notice how she says please, as if I have a choice. The girls beside me squeak, eyes oval with horror, but I notice how their knees also buckle with relief that it was not their name to be called.

I drift down the pathway, up the stairs, next to the escort. I remember her name now. Jeanie. _If I asked for a wish, would she grant it?_

Her mouth is moving but I hear no words. The world should have paused, stopped on it's axis, because, surely, this is too unimaginable for comprehension? But she continues to talk and flit about the stage. A boy is called. I shake his hand, but can't bear to look him in the eye.

There is applause, but it's muted and sounds as if I'm listening to it with cotton in my ears. I wonder why they are clapping, when one of us**—**at the very least**—**has just been sentenced to death.

**—**

Back in the holding room, the door closes behind me, and there is a rush of air and color and my vision tunnels. But the door opens again**—**I already know who it is**—**and I stumble to the couch. I can feel their eyes on my back. Clutch is sobbing.

"Seraphina ..." Dad does not know what to say. As with most people in District Three, he is out of touch with his emotions. I feel a touch of pity for this man, my father, who will never truly feel. The moment passes, and Mom comes forward, her hands on my shoulders. I don't know if it's for her sake or mine.

"You must come home Seraphina. Please. Promise me." Her eyes are wild; an animal trapped in a cage. I'm taking too long to answer. "You must promise me!"

"I promise." The words sound genuine, and I smile, like I'm already imagining the Capitols wild applause as I am crowned Victor. But I feel sick, my palms sticky**—**I must have crushed the newrose flower in my hand by mistake. I wish I were back home, still in pajamas, enjoying the sunlight. "I promise," I say again.

I always was good at pretending.

* * *

**Weston Blackwood POV**

In retrospect, maybe eavesdropping on the Peacekeepers wasn't such a good idea.

"Hey!" Blond Hair shouts at my retreating back. "Get back here, you dirty rotten**—**" Please insert the cuss word of your choice. I guarantee it won't be as foul as what came out of that man's mouth. Uncouth, isn't he?

Brown Hair is smarter. "You aren't in trouble! We just want to, uh ... talk!" Aaaaaaand he's back to being stupid again. I had such high hopes for him, too.

I would snort**—**they expect me to believe they're hunting me down for a pleasant mid-morning chat?**—**but I can hear their shoes slapping against the ground and don't want to waste any breath. Despite my joking, I know, if caught, my back will be as colorful as the uniforms they wear. In other words, black, blue, and stiff all over.

We keep a steady routine**—**me running, them following and yelling unnecessarily rude statements**—**until I get too cocky and make a wrong turn. I don't even notice until I find myself face-to-face with a lovely steel wall. Don't judge, I forget things sometimes. I'm sure you do too.

But back to the present situation**—**me, sandwiched between a 20foot wall of steel and two slow-running, badmouthing, foul-smelling**—**I'm not positive about that last one, but they did just run about a mile. They definitely don't smell like fresh bread right about now**—**Peacekeepers. And the worst part? I always thought I rather liked sandwiches.

Now I know better.

I'm running my hand over the**—**unfortunately**—**smooth metal when they turn the corner. Both their faces lite up in triumph. Seriously, they need a life. "We got you now!" Blondie hollers, like I don't already know that. And, not gonna lie, it makes me kind of mad. Peacekeepers are the worst, especially the ones who think they own the whole damn District just because they're in charge of tracking down innocent fifteen-year-olds. Somewhat innocent. Slightly innocent? Whatever.

So I bend down and spring upwards like a coil, my feet pushing down on the metal fortress, and do a front-flip over the astonished Peacekeepers heads.

Not. Did you really think I have moves like that? I'm just a fifteenyearold dude who hasn't yet finished going through puberty. Instead, I stand there, struck dumb, throat dry, mentally panicking. I really, _really_ don't want to get caught by the Peacekeepers today. It's like a lose/lose, because not only will I get a beat down for eavesdropping, but I'll get a _second _beat down for not being able to attend the Reaping because I was getting a beat down while it happened.

"Look, fellas," I drawl. "You don't really want to do this. I have things to do, places to be. I'm sure you do too. Girlfriends, maybe?" I shrug, like, who knows? Anything is possible. "A wife? You get what I'm saying. What don't you just mosey on back down to that street corner you were talking on and I'll just head on to the Reaping. No harm, no foul." I smile, flashing my pearly whites**—**muted gray, whatever, same thing**—**, sure I've just won these guys over, when**—**yeah. They grab me by the upper arm**—**um, ow?**—**and drag me out of the alley like a dead carcass.

Who knows? I may very well be one in a few hours. They're probably taking me to their underground torture chamber this very moment. I'll never see the light of day again. Mom and Dad will miss me something terrible. Poor Oscar. I promised I'd teach him how to play soccer. There goes that.

But**—**lo and behold**—**they just drag me to the center of town, where the Reaping has already started. It's just the Mayor talking about ashes or something, so I haven't missed much. "Wow, thanks," I say. Aside from a bruised upper arm, they just provided me with a reason for being late. How kind.

I'm tempted to thank them again, but they're already gone. Looks like what I overheard wasn't top secret after all. I feel irrationally disappointed, but grab a seat on the edge with the other Fifteens. A few people wave. I wave back. What? I can't help it if I'm popular.

I've just gotten comfortable**—**feet propped up on the guys chair in front of me, sorry dude**—**when I hear my name being called.

Oh. Right. This is the Reaping. I implement a couple of those swear words the Peacekeepers just taught me, but head on up to the stage anyways. The other District Three tribute looks like she could be blown away in a strong wind. We shake hands, the escort taps my head**—**yeah, I don't know either**—**and then we're escorted by Peacekeepers to the holding room.

And, what do you know, I've got the same guys! Is that coincidence or what? I can't help but notice they look a little _too_ happy right now. I'd be offended, but, frankly, Peacekeepers are pretty low on the totem pole of people whose opinions I care about. After dead snails but before trees.

Mom comes barreling inside the moment my butt plops down on the couch, Dad hot on her heels. Parvati and Oscar look solemn; and, is that a couple of tears I see?

"West!" Mom shoves me against her chest in a hug, and, yeah, I admit, I did get a little teary eyed. "Oh, no, no, no, West, no! You weren't supposed to be Reaped." She's staining my shirt, but I don't pull away. "I love you so much," she sniffles. Everyone else chimes in their agreement and I definitely have to blink back some tears now.

"Love you guys too."

Mom cups my face with her hand, smooths back my hair. "I was planning on yelling at you ... for being late. It seems so stupid now."

I swallow, smile thinly, disentangle myself from her hug. "Yeah. Sorry." I don't offer an explanation. It doesn't matter now.

Now that we've gotten the sob fest out of the way, no one seems to know what to say. I hate seeing my family cry.

So we sit in a familiar, loving, comfortable silence until Blondie and Brown Hair usher Mom, Dad, Parvati and Oscar out the door. I get the feeling they've just been ushered out of my life, too.

* * *

Not only is this the longest chapter yet, but it's _another _daily update. Sure, I may lose an hour or so of sleep, but it's worth it. I think this is my favorite chapter thus far.

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic

Thanks again! I really hope you enjoyed the read.  
- Alactricity


	6. District Four Reaping

A/N: Bad news guys. I just found out I'm going to be at my Aunt's house all weekend, and although she has cute chickens, she also has no internet. :( I'll write the chapters out while I'm there so I have something to post when I get back (probably Sunday night), but don't expect any weekend updates, cause you won't be getting one. But I also have some good news: this is the last reaping chapter! I'm moving on to the train rides next. One step closer to the actual Games guys, one step closer.

Sorry for the wait.

Disclaimer: The only thing I own is my writing, and even that is tweaked by others.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Four Reaping**

* * *

**Maren Preswick POV**

To my right; a rickety wooden bridge over a wide chasm. To my left; rabid baboon monkeys. You'd think the striped party hats on top of their heads would offset the rabid part of their appearance, but they also have saliva dripping from their pointy teeth.

The rickety bridge barely wins out.

I feel like I'm running in syrup, my legs a hundred pounds each, the sun a swollen ball of heat in the sky. I've taken two steps and already I'm sweating.

I can see the nails tieing the wooden boards together I'm so close, and my heart starts palpitating for reasons not involving baboon monkeys in party hats. Heights? I'm not the biggest fan. Regardless, I find myself on the bridge.

Someone yells, "Don't look down!", and of course now I desperately want to. I want to see how many feet I am from solid ground. What terrible fate lies on the bottom. Instead of looking down, I turn around and see Kai, my personal trainer. She's also wearing a party hat, but that's not even the worst part. Rounding the bend in the mountain, maybe fifteen feet away, are the baboon monkeys. And she looks totally unaware.

"Kai!" I choke out—she must realize what's behind her, hear them, _smell_ them for goodness sake?—but I find myself unable to talk. It's the worst feeling in the world—worse then running in syrup. I feel like invisible cement has been poured over my body and left to dry. I'm sweltering. I can't breathe. "Kai!" I try again.

Then, the bridge snaps.

Like the jaws of a terrible monster, jagged rocks on both side of me the uneven teeth, I'm swallowed by the black abyss.

—

I bolt upright, tangled in bed sheets, breathing heavy like I get after an intense workout. The dream is already trickling out of my cupped palm like water. It had something to do with ... birthdays? And Kai was there.

Whatever. With my future looming, I have more important things to do then dwell on dreams.

Like get ready for the Reaping.

Mom bought me a custom-made dress and matching shoes as a present for all the hard work I've put into training, and, not to sound arrogant, but it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Made of blue silk that reflects the color of the sky, it's completed with a cinch belt adorned with actual, tiny, blue-tinted shells. Add in a pair of sand-colored flats, my natural looks, and the confident smile to tie it all together, I've never looked better. I've never _felt_ better.

I can only hope I'm not overdressed.

Creepy nightmare forgotten, I run a brush through my hair before meeting my family in the kitchen. Dad's secretly crazy about cooking and uses Reaping Day as an excuse to make delicious foods. Not that I mind. His fish-shaped pancakes are to die for.

He whistles as I sit down. "Who is this beautiful young lady and where is Mare-bear?"

"_Daaaaaad_," I groan, ignoring the pet name he's had for since forever. "You are so corny."

"Comes with the territory," he jokes. I duck my head to hide my smile.

Mom eventually wanders in, hair set in curlers, _ooh_ing and _aah_ing over my dress even though she's seen me in it like, four times. The three of us sit together at the table and make stupid jokes over pancakes and salty bread. Before you ask—we have salty bread with _every_ meal. Everyone in District Four does.

And, yeah, I may be eighteen and way too old to laugh at Dads knock knock jokes, but I'm going to be volunteering for the Games today. I just ... I love them. They love me. Do I need more reason then that?

—

Because I have extra time, I stop by Kai's house. "Come in!" she calls from inside. Kai's house is so small there wouldn't be room for me to enter if she came to the door.

I schooch past a marble bust of a half-naked guy with a tail—Kai says they're called mermaids—and step over a pile of seaweed before I see Kai. She's wearing a fishing hat, and I have a sudden flashback of her standing at the edge of a bridge, calling something to me. I know it's not real because I've never been on a bridge before. So where ...?

Oh, right. Now I remember. My dream from this morning.

"Yo, Maren," Kai greets. "You look hot."

I blush and roll my eyes. "Not as good as you look in that hat of yours."

She raises an eyebrow. "Touché."

Kai may be like, twice my age, but she's pretty cool. We met through Career training, my parents invited her to dinner one night, and things just escalated from there. Once, someone asked if she was my mom—Kai was horrified and spent three days soaking her face with salt water moisturizer because she thought she looked "old."

"Anyways, I gotta go," I say to Kai. "I just wanted to say bye." Then I realize how awkward that sounds—like I'm going to die or something—and hastily correct, "I mean, see you in a couple of days."

Without warning, Kai wraps me in a bear hug. "I'll be rooting for you," she promises.

"I'd hope so," I joke, and then I'm gone, and her shack of a house is little more then a dot on my horizon.

—

Naturally, I volunteer.

On stage, I'm not thinking about how my hair sometimes frizzes in the humidity, or how some people might think I look stupid for waving to cameras. I smile, and I wave, and I even twirl my dress a little.

A guy I've seen before at the training center volunteers, big surprise there. Only, he looks like crap. And I don't say that to be mean. Usually he could be passed off as a descendant of Finnick Odair, but today, his hair is lank, his skin pale, his posture drooped. His expression reminds me of the time my friend swallowed a mouthful of sea water and ended up throwing up.

My eyes widen in horror but it's too late, he's clutching the revolted escorts shoulder and stumbling forward, and—

his mouth opens—

"_Noooooo!_"—

and he empties the contents of his stomach on my new shoes.

* * *

**Skippy Longshot POV**

Wrapped in a thick, woolen blanket I only use during the winter, I shuffle downstairs. Each step makes my head pound, and I have to stop a few times to lean against the banister. It takes me a sad total of ten minutes to walk from my room to the dining room.

There's a collective gasp when I enter.

"You look awful!" Sandy cries, probably trying to be sympathetic. Instead, it makes me feel worse.

Dad tries not to look too eager. "If you're still not feeling well you probably shouldn't volunteer this year."

"No!" I interrupt, holding the blanket closer to me. "Something _always_ comes up. I'm volunteering this year if it—"I pause to release a hacking cough—"kills me."

I pretend not to hear him mutter, "it just might," under his breath. Dad's always been this way. I know by now that he'll never understand. See, Mom had me when she was really young, like seventeen. Two months after my birth she was Reaped for the Hunger Games.

She never came home.

I wouldn't call myself obsessed—I only train maybe once a week—but this is important to me. The only memory I have of Mom is from the video recap of the year she was in the Games. As much fun as watching your parent get bashed in the head with a rock is, I try not to think about that particular clip often.

With no appetite for breakfast and no energy to shuffle back up the stairs, I doze on the couch and pretend not to notice when the cushion shifts under Dad's butt as he sits down.

He's quiet for a long time.

Gently, he nudges my shoulder. "Skippy."

"What?" I groan. It's a rhetorical question—I already know what he's going to say, and, as patient as I usually am, I'm just not in the mood right now.

"You don't have to do this."

I don't even hesitate. "Dad, yes I do."

"Your mother wouldn't have wanted you to waste your life for nothing!"

"Please don't try and change my mind."

Dad exhales angrily and runs a hand through his hair. He mumbles something—or maybe he yells it—but a quiet lull is reaching for me, and, when my eyes flutter shut, I find I don't have the willpower to open them.

In a final moment of lucid clarity, I think I feel a featherlight touch on my forehead. Then I know no more.

—

Unfortunately, I couldn't bring the blanket with me to the Reaping. Fortunately, I'm no longer cold. Unfortunately, I'm now uncomfortably hot.

"Dude," a good friend of mine says as I plop down in the Sixteens section next to him with a groan and a cough. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," I respond sarcastically, squinting against the bright light of the morning. Even with half-lidded eyes the sun burns red against the back of my retinas.

A few people give me weird looks when I open my eyes again. Understandable. I'm usually the life of the party kind of guy. Right now I'm acting like someone just shot my cat and ate it in front of me. That's what being sick will do to you. And, quite honestly, I've never felt so awful in my life.

I almost miss our escort calling for volunteers.

"I volunteer," I croak, and then have to say it again because no one hears me.

Walking requires effort, and I barely manage to haul myself up the steps. And then I get a whiff of the escorts fruity perfume.

Bile churns in my stomach, and, unbidden, I stumble forward, clutching something for support—I can't tell what, everything looks like it's shrouded in fog at this point—and violently up-heave. The good news? It's just stomach acid. The bad news? I car hear someone screaming, and I think that means I just threw up on my District partner.

Despite the fact I just upchucked in front of—quite literally—the entire nation, I feel better, my head a little clearer. Then, because the crowd is going wild and the girl next to me smells like vomit, I give the camera a two-finger salute and grin through the nasty taste in my mouth.

At least I've made an impression.

* * *

We're officially done with the Reapings. Hello, train rides, Capitol food, and escorts whose perfume is apparently vomit inducing.

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)

Thanks (for reviewing?)!  
- Alactricity


	7. District Five Train Ride

A/N: Sorry for the wait. It's midterms week & I had writers block. To make up for it, I'll have more time then I know what to do with this upcoming four day weekend.

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own The Hunger Games.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Five Reaping**

**

* * *

****Jenna Leigh Bell POV**

My lips are still tingling when I sit down at the dinner table. Even sitting next to District Five's escort, who's hair is died all the colors of the rainbow and has puffy cotton balls glued to her ears, even idly listening to the mentors, Hyde and Lucy, prattle on about the Games, even with imminent death hanging over my head like a storm cloud, all I can think about is that kiss.

Although the fine Capitol foods smell rich and thick, and my stomach growls with hunger, I don't want to eat even a single bite. I can still taste Shane's lips on mine; it reminded me of the one time his parents had bought chocolate, and we'd all melted it around a pot of boiling water to eat on fresh strawberries, another delicacy.

God. I miss him already.

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts I don't even notice Lucy's been calling my name. "Jenna!"

"Huh—what?" I ask intelligently, cheeks redder then the streak in Rainbow's hair when I notice all eyes are now on me.

"What do you think about allying?"

I have no idea. To be honest, I've been trying to avoid thinking about the Hunger Games as much as possible. Out of mind, out of sight. "Depends."

Lucy sighs, impatient. "On what?"

"Who I'm allying with. Like, no careers. They—they kind of scare me," my voice sounds small and vulnerable. I clear my throat. "I just mean, they've all volunteered. I don't want to be around those kinds of people." Then I realize Ezra volunteered for a fourteen year old. "I mean. Uh. Not like you! Just—the careers. I don't want to ally with the careers." I shut up before I say something else incurably stupid.

"Lucy and I both think it'd be in your best interests for you and Ezra to ally," Hyde says, ignoring my rambling and tipping back his chair so it's balancing on two legs.

I look over at Ezra, and we make eye contact. "I think it's a good idea," he tells me. Now that I'm looking at him from a new perspective, I notice things I hadn't before: how his upper torso is broad, probably with muscle, and how he looks familiar—I think I've seen him coming home from the mines before, which is good because, at his age, it shows he's committed, and hard working. Either that or his family is so poor it's either mine work or death, but he doesn't seem sickly thin.

My cheeks heat up again when I realize it probably just looked like I was ogling him. Which I so wasn't. I like Shane, remember? At least—I'm pretty positive I do. "Sure," I force out.

"Great!" Rainbow claps her hands together, like an overgrown toddler. "This is going to be so fun!"

We all stare at her. I'm starting to feel nauseous. I want to go back to thinking about Shane.

"Sure," Hyde deadpans. "What could be more entertaining then watching a bunch of kids kill each other?" Ezra coughs on his bread roll.

Rainbow beams. "My point exactly!"

—

My room on the train is bigger then the entire downstairs of my house. I stand in the middle of the room and feel small. Despite my best efforts, all I can think about now is the upcoming Games. I'm not strong. I'm not particularly stealthy. And, after my bogus session with Lucy, I found out the only thing I'm good at is being friendly and blushing.

I almost blush just thinking about how horrible the whole thing went. Lucy looked more dejected then I felt, like she had already given up, and left soon after without promising to get me any sponsors. Was it that obvious I had no clue what I was doing here?

I like order—I believe everything has a place, and everything should be in said place. A day ago, I was safe. A day ago, Shane was nothing more then a best friend. Now, I feel as if someone has stuffed my life into one of those snow globes only Capitol visitors buy at the District tourist trap and shaken it up.

My eyes start to water and I wipe at them angrily, smearing water on the back of my hand. For a few moments I almost expect Jane or Kapper or Shane to walk in and ask what's wrong, but the door stays closed and I start to sniffle in earnest now.

Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

Still, even with this in mind, I have to bury my head in the plush, goose-feathered pillows to muffle the sound of my sobs.

* * *

**Ezra Samuels POV**

Around my neck there's a metal-painted-gold chain, rusted with age and exposure to water. There's a locket attached, and it squeaks when you open it. I don't usually. The paper inside is brittle. And no, I don't keep it because it looks nice. In fact, it looks like crap, and I hardly ever wear it.

But it's the only thing I have from my birth parents. _I'm sorry_, the note says. The handwriting is painfully neat. Painfully distant. _I love you_.

I'm twisting it between my fingers as I talk to Hyde.

"Sooooo," he draws out the word. "What can you do?"

I don't have to ask what he's referring to. "I've been told I'm friendly. Um ... resourceful, I guess. Hardworking." I shrug, because talking about myself makes me feel awkward.

Hyde scoffs. "How do you plan on outliving 23 other tributes—some of whom have been training for this since they could walk—with friendliness?"

"I mentioned hardworking and resourceful, too," I rebuttal, insulted.

"Oh, yes, I can see the careers shaking in their expensive boots now."

I bristle. "What is your problem?"

Hyde picks a piece of buttery corn out of his teeth and swallows it. "I don't want to waste my time. Now, is there anything helpful you can do?"

My arm twitches, and for a brief moment I entertain punching him in the face just to show how _helpful _I can be, but this guy, old and bitter he may be, could just be my lifeline out in the arena. So I tighten my jaw and mutter, "I'm strong enough, and I can use a pickax." The thought of wielding something—something I use almost everyday for work and have never spared a second thought—to kill with makes my stomach churn.

"Can you use it?"

"I just said yeah."

"No—I mean, can you _use _it? To kill?"

Can I?

"Sure."

"You shouldn't have volunteered."

I feel mildly annoyed he didn't catch on right away. "Not because I wanted to. For the fourteen year old."

"He your brother?"

No. "Yeah."

Hyde rolls his eyes and stands up. "Look, there's just three things you need to know: listen to the stylists. Do well in training. Get sponsors. Come home alive."

"That's four things," I correct, and he slams the door shut behind him.

—

When I eventually nod off to sleep, I dream of little kids in an arena, pickax's in hand, childish laughter echoing as they tear off pieces of each others skin.

I don't remember it in the morning.

* * *

Ugh. I'm so sorry guys ... I don't like this chapter. In fact, I think I may hate it. But I just wanted to get it up, so—sorry if it's not up to par and/or I didn't do the characters justice and/or it's so boring you fell asleep reading it.

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature

Thanks~  
- Alactricity


	8. District Six Train Ride

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Six Train Ride**

* * *

**Katara Miza POV**

The first thing I do upon arriving on the train is scope out my competition. It's an older tribute, although you couldn't tell by looking at him—short, skinny and twitches at loud sounds or sudden movements, he looks about my age, fourteen. Maybe even younger.

"W-what are you t-thinking about?" Toris stutters as we sit down on the couch to watch the days recap.

How many different ways I could kill you. "Nothing important."

"Oh." He laughs awkwardly.

Call me insensitive, but I don't want to talk to this guy. I don't want to hear about his family back home. How nervous he is. Laugh over Paolina's high pitched Capitol accent. In order for me to win, he'll have to die.

I don't plan on losing.

Paolina and Kipper are the only one's who talk as the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 volunteer, although we all share a sympathetic wince as the girl from District 4 gets thrown up on. I stop watching when my District comes up. I don't want to see how insignificant I look on the 50 inch television, so I watch everyone else instead.

Kipper looks bored; maybe even apathetic. I don't have high hopes for him as a mentor, especially considering the first thing he told Toris and I was, "oh, joy, another two kids I get to watch be killed." I suspect he started out a great mentor—enthusiastic, positive, racking up sponsors. Maybe he got too attached. Maybe, after witnessing so much brutality, he's become desensitized. Whatever the reason, it's annoying, and it certainly won't help me.

Paolina's fluorescent colored hair and bright pink lips hurt to look at, so I don't stare for long. She's only got cotton candy in that Capitol head of hers anyways.

"Alright," Kipper yawns. "You two have any questions?"

I shrug. Toris starts to say something, but apparently thinks better of it and shuts up.

"Cool," he enthuses sarcastically, and then he leaves. Paolina waves goodbye. We all ignore her.

I follow soon after. Truthfully, I just didn't want to say anything in front of Toris. My strategies are for me only.

When I knock on the door, Kipper sounds grouchy—he looks grouchy, too. "What the hell do you want? I asked if you had any questions."

"Yeah, I do," I respond calmly, although I feel a bit intimidated. He's _really _tall. "How do I win?"

Kipper stares down at me for so long I start to fidget. "You don't," he tells me, and then the door slams in my face.

—

Because I'm not tired and there's nothing better to do, I practice throwing knives. Peeking my head out of the bedroom, I check to make sure no one's around before sprinting down the plush hallway and into the dining room, where silverware—including steak knives—sits untouched.

I feel like I'm six again, sneaking butter cookies from the jar in my kitchen. I half expect Dad to appear out of no where and scare the stuffing out of me, raising his eyebrow like, What Do You Think You're Doing? For whatever reason, that single raised eyebrow always used to cow me better then any of Moms lectures ever did.

Taking the knives, I sneak back into my bedroom. I press the tip of my finger on the blade and wince as a bead of blood forms. I'm anything but squeamish, but seeing my own blood creeps me out. A tiny dot of red stains the knife, and I look into shiny surface.

Yup. Same brown hair, same green eyes, same freckle above my eye. My face looks distorted in the small mirror though. Big nose. Stretched out cheeks. My blue necklace looks like a river.

Without warning, I turn around and fling the knife at the wall. It sticks, embedded, on the fake poster of a boy and girl smiling. Bulls eye.

You can thank Dad for teaching me how to use a knife. Just in case, he'd whispered, pressing the blade into my tiny hand. At first, I was awful—aim off, stance wrong, throw weak. I practiced obsessively. I'm loads better now. Even with a heavier knife than I'm used to, my aim is true every single throw.

Half of me wishes I could show off my skills to Kipper, and I contemplate sticking a knife in his door. But no. If he wants to act like a bitter old man with a receding hair line, fine. It'll just make victory taste that much sweeter. The only down side is that I'll have to work alongside his sorry mug the rest of my life.

I pretend the wall is his head and throw knives until my arm cramps up and the sun peeks over the horizon.

* * *

**Toris Louro POV**

Even though I promised Dad and Edward and Ravi and Felk I'd try my best to win, I forget to take into account one teensy tiny little problem. In order for me to become Victor and keep my life, 23 other kids will have to die.

As in, be killed. Annihilated. Butchered. Slaughtered. Destroyed. Eliminated. Eradicated. Taken out. Lynched. Exterminated. Massacred, even.

Not only have I just discovered my inner voice has an extensive vocabulary and rambles, but now I know I won't be able to kill—or any other synonym I mentioned before—anyone. And it's not even because of a physical weakness, although, yes, I'll admit, I'm a wimp. It's the principle of things. I believe every life is equally important, and who am I to decide when someone dies?

I wish Kipper were a halfway decent mentor, so I could sort all this out with him. Or that Katara didn't look at me like I was dirt, which is unfair, because, yeah, I'm not that intimidating, but neither is she. I had been planning on allying with her, too. It only seemed natural. District six with district six. There goes that fantasy.

Looks like my only other option is Paolina.

Then, because I'm a sucker desperate for someone to counsel with, I leave my room and, following the scent of vanilla sugar, track Paolina down. When I find her, she's lounging on the couch, re-coating her nails a hot pink color.

She doesn't look up when I enter, and the tips of my ears turn red. "Um—Paolina?"

Her hand shakes, and pink polish spills over her fingernail and onto the vomit-inducing pink skin. Personally, I can't even tell where the polish ends and her skin begins, but she starts shrieking in distress. "My nails, my nails!"

"I'm s-s-s-so sorry!" I stutter, really meaning it. "Let me help—"

Ten minutes later, I have a pink nail polish stain on my shirt—"Let me just use it as a napkin, it's ugly anyways,"—and Paolina is sitting across from me. I'm almost 60% sure she's paying attention.

"So, what was it again you wanted?" She chirps.

I stare at the floor. "I can't k-k-kill anyone." The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Paolina furrows her eyebrows—at least, I think she does. She doesn't have any eyebrow hair—and actually looks up from her nails to stare at me blankly. "What do you mean?"

What do I mean? I thought it was obvious. "I mean—I can't k-kill anyone. It's not right."

"But you have to!" She gasps in dismay. "It's the Hunger Games. How else are you going to win? Get sponsors?" Her expression turns to one of pure dismay. "I'll never get promoted!"

I'm tickled pink she cares so much. "Do you think if I said that I'd get less sponsors?"

"Uh, duh," she says bluntly, gesturing to my wiry frame. "You look wimpy enough as is. Admit you won't be killing anyone and you won't even be _getting _sponsors. People might even throw tomatoes at you!"

As annoying, rude, self absorbed, strange looking, and empty headed as she is, Paolina helped me out, which is more then I can say for Kipper. Plus, I'd really rather not have tomatoes thrown at me.

"Sorry for ruining your nails," I apologize again. "You can go fix them now if you like. Thanks for helping."

I duck my head as she pats my hair and beams. "No problem!"

**—**

At around ten, I wandered around the train until I found a fake rose in a vase of water. The only reason I know it's fake is because of the color**—**purple. Roses can either be red or pink. It's genetically engineered, I'm sure of it.

That's the reason I don't feel bad about what I'm going to do.

Hidden in my room**—**or whatever this thing is**—**huddled under the covers, I pick a layer off the rose. "I'll kill." I pluck another one off. "I won't kill.

Girly as hell? Yeah. Effective? We'll see.

"I'll kill." Another layer of the rose peels off. Maybe it's because I'm under a thick blanket, but a sweat breaks out. "I won't kill."

It reminds me of peeling back an onion. With each layer, the rose shrinks in size, until I'm left with only one petal.

I whisper the words. "I won't kill."

* * *

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy

Blah. I just want to get to the games already. 8D. But wow**—**almost 70 reviews! My mind is blown.

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	9. District Seven Train Ride

A/N: Just a word of caution: Ava kind of curses. A lot.

Inspiration in the form of music: Bennie and the Jets, resung by Haley Reinhart.

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. The characters belong to you.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Seven Train Ride  
**

**

* * *

**

**Ava Jansen POV**

Squished between a twelve year old in an old guys body and Pretty Boy, I figure I may be dead before the Games even begin. I might just take the huge ass clip out of Guthry's hair and stab myself with it until I die of blood loss. Trust me, I'd be doing myself a favor.

"So we're sitting there," Link explains. I'll be dammed if he isn't talking in the stupidest, most unnecessary accent I have ever heard in my entire life. That includes the Capitol accent and the slow, southern drawl all of District Ten seems to speak in. And I know it's not a real accent because, just ten minutes ago, he was talking in a different one. "When Rhett—he's the District Three mentor, a real ace of a guy—starts choking on a meatball!"

At this point, Link seems to find it necessary to stand up and act out the entire scene. I would complain, but now I can actually sit without having to constantly shove Pretty Boy's hand off my thigh.

"I'm laughing too hard to actually help him, so Rhett starts slamming his fist down on the table—" here he bangs his hand on the coffee table—or whatever the hell that stupid table between the couch and television is supposed to be—and Guthry starts laughing hysterically, even though it isn't the least bit funny. Obnoxious? Yes. Funny? Hell no. "—and waiters start rushing in our direction just as I fall backwards off the chair since I'm laughing so hard, and this one guy trips over the chair and face plants into the carpet!"

Before he can dive bomb himself into the floor, I stand up. No one taught Triston to keep his hands to himself, no one taught Guthry the definition of humorous, and no one taught Link how to grow the hell up. I've never been a good teacher, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"WOULD YOU THREE JUST SHUT THE FRICK UP?" I explode, shoving Link backwards and feeling sadistic pleasure as he stumbles a step. "AND YOU!" I whirl around to point accusingly at Guthry. "What the hell is wrong with you? I know you're from the Capitol and everything, so you're automatically a freak, but good God! _Stop laughing_!"

From his perch on the couch, Triston snorts. I kick him in the balls.

"What the—what was that for?" He wheezes, doubled over in pain.

"One of you is already too much," I hiss. "I don't want you putting your bread in some chicks oven and repopulating, because frankly I think I may just have to kill the mother and her unborn child."

"Holy cheeseballs," Link says from behind me. "Did someone forget to tell me you're certifiably insane?"

My left eye twitches. He's talking in an accent. Again.

"Ja," Guthry agrees. His eyes are watery. "You are a mean girl."

"Not mean," I correct. "Easily annoyed. You're the kind of people that make me wonder why I'm not a god damn cannibal!"

Despite the fact all I've done is yell at a group of hormonal idiots, my breathing is heavy, I'm sweating, and my vision is tinted red. I'm shuddering. I'm so angry it physically hurts. I just want to rip something apart, want to feel their broken flesh beneath my hands—

I flash them all a stiff middle finger and leave the room before my rage bubbles over and I do something illegal.

—

There's something you should know about me. I'm not sadistic. I don't get a sick thrill out of causing people pain. I don't pick fights for the hell of it. I just—I'm _angry_. Someone will say or do something I don't like and it'll be like a door opens, a light switches on, the river floods over the dam, and all this pure, unfiltered anger comes pouring out of my mouth like a waterfall, and I can hear what I'm saying and know what I'm doing, but I don't process what's happening until later.

I've been like that my entire life.

It's exhausting, being angry, so I slam the door to the room behind me and curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor. The tile is cool against my sizzling skin. I can almost see the steam.

—

A knock on the door startles me awake. With a groan, I peel my cheek off the floor. "What?"

"It's me, Link," Link says needlessly. I already know it's him. He's the only dude I know who insists of talking in a different accent every ten minutes. "Open up?"

I don't want to see him or his stupid hair cut. I don't want to hear how his story ended, if his friend survived the Meatball Attack. I just want to take a shower and fall back asleep.

"No."

He sighs, like I'm a toddler throwing a tantrum, which gets me going again. I throw open the door, and it narrowly avoids colliding with his nose. "Watch the nose! That's my money maker."

Arms crossed over my chest, I roll my eyes skyward. I can already feel the rage stirring. "You wanted something?"

"Yeah. It's pretty customary of District Seven and Three tributes to ally together, and Triston already agreed, so I was wondering if—"

"Fine," I interrupt. Then I slam the door in his face.

I saw the tributes from three. The girl looked like a ghost; the boy, an energetic retard.

But if it gets Link to shut up, I'd agree to chop off my arm and eat it, sans salt, as a tasty snack.

* * *

**Triston Enki POV**

When Ava leaves the room, we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. I slowly and painfully stretch out on the couch. "For a chick who just kicked me in the gumpy, she's kind of hot."

Link shakes his head. He looks oddly reminiscent. "I didn't notice. I was too busy fearing for my life."

I chuckle, but then wince when pain flares down south. I'll have to remember in the arena that Ava, despite looking like a girl, certainly doesn't kick like one.

"Isn't attacking other tributes before the game illegal?" I ask idly, wondering what would happen if I turned her in. Despite my bland tone, I'm feeling ticked. All I did was put my hand on her thigh once. Twice. Maybe five times. So what? That didn't warrant an attack on my swimmers, who did nothing wrong.

"Yeah." Link shoves my feet off the couch and sits down. "But they never do anything about it."

Sounds fair.

We watch the remainder of the Reaping recaps in silence punctuated by an offhand comment about the appearance or age of a tribute. To be honest, I'm only worried about the Careers. I'm not beefy, but I've worked in a wood shop my entire life, and I eat healthy. Plus, I've been told I'm good looking. Good looking tributes always get more sponsors.

Apparently Link and I are on the same wavelengths. "So. About the Games. What approach do you want to go with?"

"Uh..."

He laughs. Even his laugh is loud. "Don't worry, everyone always says that. If you want my opinion, I think you should ally. Probably with District Three. I'm good friends with their mentor, so it's convenient. And you'll need all the help you can get."

"Hey!"

"Nothing personal dude," he says with a shrug. "But allies are never a down side. Unless**—**" Link breaks off, looking pained. "Never mind. They're almost always a good idea."

_Ooookay then_, I think to myself. But I can dimly remember his games. I was what**—**ten? I'm almost positive he allied with a bunch of people and bull rushed the Careers. Now that I'm actually here, in the Games, ready to fight for my life, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea. In fact, it sounds down right brilliant.

"I'm up for allies," I agree. "District Three wouldn't have been my first choice, but**—**" I break off, because I can't think of a tactful way to say I think the District Three tributes won't last a day.

"If you ally with Three you get double the sponsors," Link persuades.

I don't even have to think about it. "Deal."

**—**

Link and I spend the next two hours discussing tactics. Loud though he may be, he's a damn good mentor. He's leaves to try and persuade Ava into joining our little alliance**—**bless him**—**while I slurp down a thick noodle soup. I'm not poor exactly, but this still may be the best soup I've eaten**—**drunken?**—**in my entire life.

I think about the small twelve year old that stopped to visit me after I was reaped. How she thanked me for the meager amount of food I was able to provide her family with. She should be eating this soup right now.

Later, after I wash down the guilty feeling in my throat with a mug of warm milk, after I rinse off in a shower with steaming hot water, after I change into pajama pants that freaking caress my legs, I realize that, despite my situation, I'm feeling confident. Optimistic.

If it weren't for the fact I'm going to be fighting for my life in three days, I may even feel safe.

* * *

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player

Sorry for the delay. I had Ava's POV written and done yesterday but couldn't find time to finish until now.

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	10. District Eight Train Ride

A/N: Sorry guys. Life has suddenly become overwhelming and I can't continue writing this story for a while. A couple months at minimum. I'm so sorry.

... April Fools! 8D

Disclaimer: No no no and, oh yeah, no.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Eight Train Ride**

* * *

**Liesl Lisbon POV**

I haven't said a single word since the Reaping. Perhaps it's shock. Perhaps I've simply had nothing to say. Considering Mom broke down crying on my shoulder not yet ten minutes ago and I stood there, stiff as a board, not speaking, makes me think it's the former. She wept until the Peacekeepers forcibly dragged her out. I wanted to say something. Maybe, "Gee, thanks for the confidence, Mom," or, "I'll be back," or maybe even, "I love you."

Instead I said nothing. Even now I fear if I open my mouth to talk I might scream instead.

District Eight has two mentors. Neither of them say anything, either. In fact, the only sound is that of silverware scraping against glass plates.

I toy with the spaghetti; twirl it with my fork; wonder who these people are. What their story tells.

The man, who didn't introduce himself, looks bored. He pokes his steak with a knife. Automatically I can tell he won't be much help. The women, Naomi, picks at a salad. She looks like she might have been pretty, once. Before the Games stole her youth.

Sneaking a look at Crayne, who sits beside me, I see his face is oddly blank. Immediately I'm suspicious. Even the Capitol escort looks bored; the whiskers surgically glued to her face are drooping.

We're a lively bunch. I'm still unsure if I prefer the silence or mindless chatter most people feel compelled to fill a room with.

"Any questions?" Naomi's voice is uncomfortably loud. She clears her throat. "About the Games, I mean."

I shrug. Personally, I'd love nothing more then to find a book on this train and bury myself in someone else's problems. The best books are able to make you forget, even if it's only for a moment.

"Yeah," Crayne replies. He turns to me. "Want to ally?"

I don't trust him. But he's older, bigger, probably stronger. I nod affirmative.

With no appetite, I shovel the pasta down my throat without tasting it and force down half a steak and a bowl of salad. I may not be hungry now, but in four days, I'd rather be looking back longingly on the food I ate then beating myself up over not eating it all.

The more food I eat the longer I can last without it in the arena, after all.

**—**

Miracle of all miracles, I find a hardback book in the bedroom. Placed in the drawer next to my bed, it's a novel I've read to death. _The History of Panem_ has been mandatory reading since the second grade. But a book is a book is a book.

I crack it open to the first page. _Panem sucks eggs _is graffitied in black pen. Not exactly eloquent, but I still smile. It's nice to know rebellion happens even in the unlikeliest of places.

_Before Panem, _I read. _The world was dangerous. The people were ruthless. The technology was primitive. They burnt their world to the ground. And out of the ashes rose Panem._

_**—** _

The next morning, as the train slows to a stop, Naomi appears in front of me, looking distressed. "Are you sure you have no questions?"

I nod.

"Well ... listen to the stylists. They're here to help you." She worries her bottom lip. "I'll think up an angle for you while you're gone. Any preference?"

I shake my head no. The train doors gape open.

"Good luck!" she calls out after me.

Good luck indeed.

* * *

**Crayne Lyde POV**

I'm dipping my second lobster in warm butter when Liesl abruptly stands up and leaves the dining room without so much a backward glance. We watch her leave. When I turn back around, the butter from my lobster has dripped onto the tablecloth. Oops. I move my plate over to cover the stain and hope no one notices.

Outside the window, we pass trees, trees, and a few more trees. Some overgrown branches scratch the glass as the train whips by, but it doesn't leave a mark. "How does this train work, anyways?" I ask, suddenly overcome by curiosity. "What does it run on?"

The unnamed escort snorts. "Who cares?"

"It runs on the track," Felicity tells me, her tone oozing superiority. "Duh."

I stare at her. "No, I meant what powers it? Electricity? Water?"

Her mouth forms an 'o' of embarrassment and her whiskers twitch. "I'm with Gregorius," she sniffs, gesturing to the male escort. At least now I know why he didn't tell us his name. "Who cares?"

"It runs on coal," Naomi interrupts. "From Twelve. Why do you want to know?"

"Just wondering," I say vaguely.

Back home, no one would have questioned this kind of behavior. I come from a long line of inventors**—**my great-grandfather invented the sewing machine, and industrialized textile factories forever. In fact, the only person in my family _not _an inventor is Mom, and, well, I don't really see her too often. She has her own life now.

Even Jingle, who periodically stalks guys, has a knack for inventing.

I miss them. All of them. District Eight wasn't perfect, but it was safe and familiar and _home_. I guess there's a reason 'you never miss a good thing until it's gone' is such a popular saying.

"How are you holding up?" Naomi inquires, and though I know she means well I'm kind of annoyed. Why would I tell a complete stranger how I'm feeling on the worst day of my life? I can't stand nosy people.

"As well as could be expected."

She gives me a look. "Which is?"

" ... Fine."

I excuse myself before she starts asking what color underpants I wear, too.

**—**

Safely hidden away in the room they gave me, I rummage through the drawers for a sheet of paper and a pencil. I find a small notepad with the words _Capitol Inc. Supplying your paper for years! _stamped in the corner. I figure, who knows what I'm capable of doing better then I do?

No one, that's who.

Diving the pad into two columns, I write _can climb _under the Things I Can Do heading. _Swim _goes under Things I Can't Do, along with _use weapons_ and _hunting animals_. Looking at this uneven list, I'm feeling pretty depressed and quickly scribble _identify poison plants and bugs _next to climb. Just to make it even, I add on _run quickly_, too.

At least now I know what to work on during training. Which is basically everything. I sigh and crumple the paper up into a small ball before tossing into the waste basket five feet away. It misses.

There's another thing I can't do**—**aim.

As long as the Arena doesn't have any bodies of water, people I have to kill with weapons, or animals I have to hunt, I think I'll be okay. In others words, I'm screwed.

Then I remember I allied with Liesl, and silently hope she's a better swimmer then I am.

—

After hours of tossing and turning, I give up any hope of sleeping and flip on the light switch. A clock sits on the bedside dresser. With nothing better to do, I take it apart and use the parts to build a lopsided helicopter. Using the hour and minute hands as propellers, I throw it into the air and watch as it hovers, uncertain, before the makeshift wings buckle under gravity's immense weight, and the helicopter drops out of the sky.

The pieces shatter when it hits the floor.

* * *

Is it just me or did the train ride chapters go by really quickly? Chariot rides are up next. I'm kind of excited to come up with some crazy chariot ride outfits. ;D Also, do you guys want me to write longer chapters? They've been really short ...

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious

You've been warned~  
- Alactricity


	11. District Nine Chariot Ride

Disclaimer: I wonder who the idiot is that claimed to be the author of the book he was fanfictioning for.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games**  
**District Nine Chariot Ride**

* * *

**Kaaya Zeyher POV**

The Capitol is even grander in person. Overwhelming buildings that shoot up into the stratosphere, Capitol citizens dressed up like every day is Halloween, and then of course there's the Hunger Games building itself**—**wide, tall, and when the doors swoosh open and Steve and I are ushered inside, most definitely intimidating.

"Eeps," I squeak involuntarily, unable to stop the terrified noise from slipping out as we pass life-sized posters of past Victors. Lianna stops us to point out her own poster. Her tangled hair is blown straight, her skin flawless, the angle of her hips sharp enough to cut bone; but it doesn't look anything like the wrinkled women besides us.

"That's me," she boasts proudly. "Back when I was your age. Damn, I miss the days when I use to walk up looking like that."

"You were pretty," I venture.

She turns to me, eyes blazing. "_Were_? I still am, you little cow!"

"That's what I meant! Honest!"

Lianna huffs and flips her hair over her shoulder. I can tell it's been dyed because the roots on the crown of her head are speckled with gray, but I say nothing. Despite the fact she probably weighs less then I do, Lianna scares me a bit. This is the seventh time in two days she's bitten my head off over an intended-to-be-nice comment.

After a few more minutes of awkwardly staring at her poster, Lianna rushes us along. "What are you two waiting for? Your stylists are going to flay you alive for being late, tut tut. And Kaaya, they're going to need all the time they can get trying to make you look decent, so I'd hurry up if I were you."

My face burns red, but I don't have time to reply, not that I would have anyways. Lianna shoves me into a room marked _District 9 Girl_ and I find myself surrounded by three Capitol ladies, armed with face paint and tweezers. I've never seen a more dangerous trio.

"You're late!" Purple-hair snarls.

"Sorry! Lianna stopped us, and**—**"

"The time for talking is over," she interrupts. "We have to make you beautiful."

**—**

Three hours later, my skin is rubbed raw and I have to look upwards to blink back tears. I've messed up my makeup twice now, and I seriously think Fiona**—**the purple haired stylist**—**would shoot me if I smudged it again.

Although I haven't seen myself in a mirror yet, I feel different. I know I look different. They covered me with body spray to tan my skin, painted my face so heavily I feel like I'm wearing a mask, and plucked every single hair off my body, including my bellybutton. Why would they pluck the hair off my naval area, anyways? No one's going to see it!

Well. I hope, anyways.

The door opens, and who I assume to be my stylist enters the room. Only, he's a guy. And he's telling me to take off the robe. Under normal circumstances, I would be mortified. As it is I still blush from the end of my nose to the tips of my toes when he gives me a quick once over.

"Hm. I was hoping your legs would be longer." He unzips the bag folded over his shoulder and showcases a pair of short shorts and an off-the-shoulder top made entirely out of rubber. And that's not even the worst part. My shoes are a pair of seven inch, flaming red, high heels.

I gape.

"Yeah," he sighs. "District Nine is hard to style for. I mean, a Distract founded on the production of shoes? _Bor-ing_. I'm just hoping I get promoted."

I gape some more.

"Well go on then, try it on," he urges, and I wiggle into the outfit. It's not exactly see-through**—**more foggy then anything**—**but I feel like a floozy. Coupled with the shoes, I'm sure I _look _like a floozy too.

He steps back. "You know, it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

"Really?"

"No." He chuckles. "It's even worse."

**—**

I leave an extra twenty minutes before we're supposed to meet up with Lianna because it takes me so long to walk in these shoes. I toddle through the hallway and tug down my shorts. Even though I've only been dressed for maybe ten minutes, the pants have glued themselves to my skin, and I physically can't slouch.

I'm hurting. I look stupid. And I'm going to have to wear this get up for the next two hours. I blink back tears of horror**—**I really can't afford a makeup malfunction on top of everything else**—**and slowly make my way to the elevator. I try not to think about what everyone back home will think of me. What Jacob will think of me. Mom, if she's lucid enough to watch my Games, will be horrified. "That's not my daughter," she'd hurry to assure my people. "We just have the same last name."

I lean against the elevator wall for support. Lianna wouldn't be so mean as to laugh at my misfortune**—**would she?

The doors spread open with a bing, and my heel almost gets stuck in the crack between metal and plush carpet. I pretend I can't hear Lianna laughing hysterically; hear Steve stifling his own laughter.

"Oh my God," Lianna cackles. "You look just _awful_!" She sounds delighted.

I start sniffling, and Steve mutters, "You don't look that bad," but he can't stop his lips from twitching.

"Could we please just get this over with?" I beg. These shorts are giving me a massive wedgie.

"Your funeral," Lianna chuckles, wiping a pretend tear from her eye.

I want to bawl.

**—**

Steve has to help me up onto the chariot since I can't do anything besides stand stick straight in these clothes. Dressed in a clean-cut black suit with a glowing shoe-patterned tie, he looks presentable; _normal_. I burn with envy.

Smiling to the entire Nation would be difficult in the best of circumstances; I'm in the worst. I can hear the other tributes laughing at me behind my back.

"Just ignore them," Steve mutters monotonously. "People will remember you."

"Yeah," I howl. "As the girl who looks like the bottom of a shoe!"

"No press is bad press," he encourages, which is, in a way, true. It makes me feel a bit better. But only a bit.

The Capitol employees give the signal, and our horses take off out the doors separating us from all of Panem. I paste a watery smile on my face and wave to the crowd, even though my hands are sweating, the bright lights are blinding me, and the roar of the crowd is turning my stomach into a professional gymnast.

Through the glare of the lights I can make out a crowd of oddly dressed people, cheering and jeering and pointing and laughing. I smile at faceless blurs until my cheeks hurt, but at least it distracts from the heels digging into my**—**well, heels, and the fact I'm pretty sure I've started to cry again.

I sigh, but it's lost in the thrill of the night.

* * *

**Steve Ranbar POV  
**

"Look at the size of his eyebrows!" A stylist gasps in shock the minute I step into the room.

"You mean _eyebrow_," A different stylist corrects. "It looks like he has a uni-brow."

The third and final stylist bounds forward to stare at my eyebrows. "It's like they're alive!"

All three share a collective shudder.

I don't know whether to feel insulted or not. Considering all three talk in the Capitol accent**—**high pitched, like they've just sucked in helium**—**and probably surgically enhanced their fingernails, I choose not.

"He's built like a twig," Stylist #3 complains as she swoops in to pluck another hair. "Absolutely no muscle at all."

"That's better then last years tribute," Stylist #2 mutters. "He was a big as**—**well, you."

Stylist #3 gasps in shock. "How dare you!" She plucks a hair with a vindictiveness I don't think is aimed at me, and I wince.

"Watch what you're doing," Stylist #2 says mildly. "You're going to make him bleed."

Thank you, Stylist #2.

"Wish I could make you bleed," Stylist #3 mutters, but the tweezers don't attack my face this time.

**—**

After three hours of listening to the stylists alternate between insulting each other and insulting other people, I'm relieved when they leave. Relived I can finally slip the silk robe on. Relieved, because my legs are still tingling from where they waxed all the hair off.

Ow.

"I'm Freda," my designer introduces the moment she flounces in the door. "And this is your chariot outfit."

She unzips a plain black suit with a shoe-pattern tie that lights up when she presses a button. "Nice, huh?"

"Sure," I say. I don't want to hurt her feelings. She's glowing more then the tie is.

The suit feels nice against my skin, if a little strange, and the guy looking back in the mirror at me looks distinguished. Professional. And, with my newly plucked eyebrows, I'm willing to bet maybe even handsome.

**—**

Standing next to Kaaya, I feel overwhelming gratitude towards Freda. My suit may look boring and drab, but, next to her disaster of an outfit, I look like a breath of fresh, completely normal, air.

I can hear a few people cheering my name when our chariot shows up on the big screen. I can hear even more people laughing. I don't smile though; I don't wave. I'm not a particularly smiley guy by nature, and the nice approach will only get you so far.

Like a statue, I keep my face carefully blank majority of the night. It's only when the cameras are panning over our chariot for the final time that I curve one corner of my mouth upward**—**my version of a smile.

I've been told the few smiles I do give are particularly nice. Maybe, if sponsors like it enough, they'll want to keep me smiling. Keep me happy. Keep me alive.

* * *

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	12. District Ten Chariot Ride

A/N: Because I always forget to mention the anonymous reviewers**—**thank you. (:

Disclaimer: Not the Hunger Games, not the characters, and certainly not the Forest Gump quote.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Ten Chariot Ride  
**

* * *

**Ava Weese POV**

"Your mother is going to kill me," Flarra moans. "Chop my head clean off and feed the rest of my body to the horses."

Flarra is my mentor**—**and my great-aunt. You'd think it'd be beneficial, being so close to my mentor, and I suppose, in a way, it is; but mostly I feel guilty. Guilty that Flarra feels so guilty. Guilty that she's focusing solely on me and forgetting about Roland. She even came up with this theory that I was Reaped because we're related.

"Don't be silly," I'd said. "It's all done randomly. Just bad luck is all."

She hadn't looked convinced.

"Ma would never do that," I insist. Again. This isn't a new argument. "She knows I'd never blame you in case**—**in case something happened."

"_I'd _blame me!" She wails. "This is all my fault. Just go**—**go before I start to cry."

Roland takes that as his cue to leave, and vanishes. I hesitate. "Auntie, it's not your fault."

"You're so sweet," Flarra tells me. "And naïve."

**—**

"You're going to love your outfit," Flo, a member of my prep team, squeals as she trims the end of my hair. "Very adorable."

Luisa snorts. "Too bad it's not going to love you."

"Oh, hush," Flo chides. "Hate gives you wrinkle lines."

"I think you'll look lovely," Katrina compliments. "I wish I could just wrap you up and take you home with me!"

I blush, embarrassed by their attention.

"And waste all that potential?" Flo protests. "I think not!"

The three squabble, pout, and get excited over nothing, like a trio of spoiled pets. If anything, it helps take away from the pain of getting my legs waxed. Two words: Not pleasant.

Just as the three are wrapping up a heated debate about the pro's and con's of using glitter**—**on one hand, it makes you sparkle. On the other, it makes you sparkle for _days_. That stuff is like the herpes of makeup. Their words, not mine**—**the door opens, and who can only be my stylist enters the room.

"You three are done here?" She asks, but it doesn't sound like a question. They cease conversation and scurry out, Katrina patting my head and wishing me luck as they go.

"I am Jiminininininini," Jiminininininini introduces herself. "But most people just call me Jim. It saves time."

"Ava," I offer. "And I like your name. It's beautiful."

Jiminininininini appraises me. "Do you now? Well. Thanks."

"No problem!"

Since I'm from the cattle and ranching District, I'm dressed in a pink and white plaid shirt that ties up in the middle and a barely-above-the-knee jean skirt. The boots are a plain brown with small heels, and spurs on the back.

Jiminininininini pulls my hair into two loose pigtail braids and places a cowgirl hat on top. With a few feet of rope twined around my arm, I feel like a real life cowgirl.

I giggle at my reflection. "Yeehaw!"

**—**

Since I have an hour to kill before the Chariots, I wander off to find Flarra. Make sure she's okay and hasn't done anything drastic. I love her, but back in District Ten she's known as Flarra Flair-a for a reason.

After twenty minutes of random hallway walking, I pass another tribute in a glittering diamond dress that reflects all the colors**—**deep purples, teal blues, radiant yellows, grassy greens.

"Wow!" I breathe, and she turns to look at me, one perfect eyebrow raised in acknowledgement. "I _love _your dress. It's breath-taking."

"Funny," she muses. "If it's so breath-taking, how are you talking right now?"

"I**—**huh?" Her superior tone catches me off guard. "It's just a figure of speech."

"It's called a rhetorical question, dumbass." She rolls her dark eyes and gives my outfit a slow once-over, her smirk widening at the braids in my hair, or maybe at the hat on my head. I resist the urge to fidget. "But I'm guessing you don't know what that is, either. Don't feel bad; District Ten isn't exactly known for having much brain capacity. Maybe it's from headbutting animals all day."

"You don't know anything about me," I pout, voice warbling with hurt and embarrassment.

"Oh contraire! You're Ava Weese, thirteen, District Ten's youngest tribute in a few years. You have a family back home that isn't perfect but loves you regardless. You're pathetically poor, but probably still donate your food to the few below you. You're such a sweet girl, garnering praise wherever you go. Everyone's your friend. Everyone just _loves _Ava Weese. You plaster on a smile to hide the fear. Probably no one has ever talked to you like this before. Probably you'll cry in the arena." She shrugs. "But you'll be dead, so really, who cares?"

I'm shocked. She's so spot on it makes me feel as cold as the tone of her voice. But I know something about her, too.

"You're Katalina," I don't know her last name, so I leave it off. "Also thirteen. A career from District Two. You've been training for this your whole life. And you'll be horribly embarrassed when you lose to a cowgirl from a District Ten." I shrug. "But you'll be dead, so really, who cares?"

"_Everyone _will care!" She shrieks, finally losing her cool. Despite the fact she instigated this entire fight, I feel awful. I've never been deliberately mean to someone before, and I don't like it. "You don't know who you're messing with, Ten!"

It's true, I don't. Katalina may be my age, but she's still a career**—**skilled in weapons, ruthless, determined to win. I don't want her as an enemy.

"Sorry," I try to backpedal. "I didn't mean to insult you**—**"

"Get out of here before I do something illegal," she threatens, and because I don't think she's kidding, I take off down the hallway, heart pounding, shoes sinking in the plush, as she flings obscenities at my back.

**—**

I spend twenty minutes locked in the nearest broom cupboard sobbing.

**—**

By the time I find Flarra, everyone's lining up by the chariots. "Oh, there you are," she greets, relief evident. "Where were you?"

"I had to get my makeup redone," I explain. "Sorry for making you worry."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo. You look great. Just be yourself out there and people will love you."

I think of Katalina. "Sounds easy enough."

"Make me proud!" Flarra calls as the horses pulling Roland and I gallop out the doors.

* * *

**Roland Albrecht POV**

I think I'm going to be sick, and Ava's cheerful comments aren't helping. "You look great!" She beams at me, the crowd, the other tributes, the horses. It's like someone stuck a flashlight in her head and turned it on bright.

"Um, thanks," I mumble, the tips of my eyes burning red. Porcena made it clear I should interact with the crowd, but all I can do is stare at my shoes and glance up when I hear someone chanting my name. I offer them a shy smile and then hurriedly look away again. These people don't even know me. How can they be cheering my name?

I'm dressed in a stereotypical cowboy getup; the flare pants, brown vest over no shirt, spurs on the back of my boots. I don't think it's very realistic. If a real cowboy**—**not that we have many of those anymore**—**went out without a shirt, they'd be burnt within minutes. Still, considering the District Four guy is wearing only bathing suit trunks and the girl has a fishtail covering both legs, I don't think the stylists are aiming for practicality.

The scariest outfit, oddly enough, has to be the tributes from Seven. The guy is in an all-brown body suit, his hair dyed**—** temporarily, I hope, for his sake—leafy green. The girl is dressed in red plaid, but that's not even the worst part. She's wielding a seven foot axe, the tip dripping with red, and miming chopping into the guys side. It's weird, and a little creepy, but the Capitol crowd can't get enough of it. Figures.

Without warning, Ava grabs my hand. "Sorry!" She yells over the roar of the crowd, still smiling and waving with her free hand like nothings wrong. "I'm just really nervous right now!"

I can tell. My palms were moist before, but now they're slick with sweat.

"Why aren't you waving?" She asks through the smile on her face. "It's better if you do."

"Nervous, I guess," I mutter incomprehensibly, and she throws her head back and laughs like I've just said something hilarious. "What's so funny?"

"Absolutely nothing," Ava giggles again. "You'll attract more sponsors if you wave, or smile, or laugh. Do something." That explains that.

I don't mention I'm going to lose regardless of how many people sponsor me because I smile. She seems like a cheery kid. I don't really want to be the one responsible for bursting her bubble.

I smile halfheartedly so she'll drop the subject.

**—**

"WHAT WAS THAT!" Porcena snarls, pouncing on me the moment the elevator dings open. "YOU BARELY SMILED! SOME COWBOY! YOU LOOKED LIKE SOMEONE HAD PUT A BAG OVER YOUR HEAD!"

I shrug, abashed but not regretful. I wasn't happy. So I didn't smile. I'm going to die, I might as well do it while I'm still myself and not some Capitol puppet who smiles when they don't mean it.

"AGGGGH!" Porcena bellows. "YOU FOOL! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY I'M SO ANGRY!" She kicks over a table and storms out.

Flarra's deep in conversation with Ava, so I scurry out of the room before Porcena figures out what she wants to say and comes back.

**—**

After not sleeping a wink yesterday, I'm so tired I fall asleep in the shower, and only when the water turns cold do I wake up.

Of course, now that I'm awake, I can't fall back asleep. After staring at the wall for half-an-hour, I swing out of bed and out of the room, hungry since I slept through dinner.

No one's in the lounge/eating/television/whatever-that-place-is-called room, so I take the elevator downstairs in the hopes an Avox will randomly pop up.

Instead of an Avox, I find the District Eleven tribute**—**Dahlia, is it?**—**sitting on a suede couch. The fluorescent overhead chandeliers are turned off, and the only light comes from outside; mostly the Capitol buildings that run 24/7. I doubt you can see many stars here.

I'm planning to turn back around when I spot the box of assorted chocolates on her lap. I almost start salivating. Chocolate. I've only had chocolate once before in my entire life**—**when Flarra won the Games and the District was lavished with goods like chocolate**—**and it tasted better then any foods I've ever tried.

My stomach says yes but my brain says no. Why would this girl share with me, anyways? Unbidden, my feet start walking towards her, and she looks up, probably surprised to see another tribute.

"Um, hi," she smiles uncertainly. She has chocolate on her teeth.

"Hi," I reply. "Where'd you get that chocolate?"

"The what?"

Um. I gesture to the box on her lap. "That."

"Oh," Dahlia giggles, embarrassed. "Sorry, I just found it on the dessert table, tried one, and then snatched the box before someone else ate them. I've never had these before! They're sooooo good." To emphasize her point, she pops another small piece of heaven in her mouth and chews. "You want one?"

YES. I WILL WORSHIP THE GROUND YOU WALK ON. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," Dahlia offers graciously. "My mama always said everything tastes better when you share it with a friend."

I don't know what to say, so I take a chocolate and chew. It's even better then I remembered. And is that**—**caramel?

"She also used to say life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. I didn't understand it until now."

The past tense isn't lost on me. "Sounds like a smart lady."

Dahlia sighs. "Yeah. She was."

We savor the rest of the chocolates in silence, and even when the last one has been divided in half and swallowed, we stay on the couch.

"Hey," she says when I finally pull myself off the couch. It's late, I'm tired, and I'm full of delicious chocolate. I just want to dive under the covers on my bed and sleep. "You wanna be allies?"

"Sure," I agree, and smile.

* * *

I've decided that, once the games begin, every dead tribute will have their name erased from the list below. Keeps things organized. Oh, and I love reviews more then Roland loves chocolates. ;D

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	13. District Eleven Chariot Ride

A/N: OVER 100 REVIEWS! /dies of joy and happiness. Sorry for the delay. I couldn't think of anything to write. Also: HAPPY BIRTHDAY The Not So Goodness! Sorry I couldn't get District 12 up today. Here's hoping you have a wonderful birthday anyways.

Disclaimer: Nope.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Eleven Chariot Ride**

* * *

**Dahlia Jaines POV**

"Dahlia!" Rose calls. "Dahlia, where are you? Your prep team is waiting!"

I cram few pieces of sharp cheese in my mouth, grab a handful of white chocolate chip cookies, and a hide a plate of fresh chicken soaked in tomato sauce behind my back. "Coming!" I say around a mouth full of food.

"Somewing?"

Oops. I dry swallow the food and repeat, "I said I'm coming!"

I sneak another mouthful of cheese and end up leaving with my cheeks bulging, looking more like the chipmunks I see back home than a human girl.

**—**

"Oh good, you're here," a member of my prep team says the moment I enter. "I'm Paris, and**—**why in the world did you bring a plate of chicken with you?"

I bite my lip, sheepish. "Um. I'm hungry."

"Do you have any idea how many calories are in this?" a guy with white blond hair sniffs. "Too many."

"I don't mind," I say honestly. "I'm going to need the calories for the arena anyways."

"No one likes a know-it-all," he scowls. "I'm Genovera."

I smile, bright as the sun. "Charmed. But uh, could I eat my chicken now?"

**—**

My dress is made entirely out of wheat. It's got about as much shape as a potato sack, but the golden baked hue makes up for it, I think. Under the fluorescent light, it's so shiny I can see my stylists pleased reflection in the skirt. My hair is braided down my back, pieces of wheat threaded into the intricate pattern. My makeup is lightly gold, and shimmery.

"Well? Isn't it just amazing?"

"Very," I agree. "Kinda itchy, but it works."

"Of course it works!" Karlene snarls. "I spent four weeks painstakingly sowing each individual wheat stock onto that dress!"

I bite my lip again. "I didn't mean it that way, I just meant**—**anyways, it's amazing, and I love it. Thank you."

Her face melts, relaxed, pleased. "You're very welcome deary."

**—**

I slurp down a spoonful of creamy chicken and rice soup, chug back a glass of lemonade, lick the dessert spoon clean. I'm just about to dive back for another helping of the whipped mousse when**—**

"Good God," Rose comments from across the table. "I've never seen anyone eat so much before."

I laugh, embarrassed that she noticed. "It's all so delicious. I want to try everything."

That's only the half of it though. Back home, I got maybe one meal a day, two if an epidemic broke out or one of our tributes won. So used to being in a permanent state of hunger, this easy, full-time access to food is baffling. And superbly mouthwatering.

Rose winks at me. "Honey, you could eat for a year straight and never taste all the food the Capitol has to offer. I speak from experience." She pats a small food baby on her stomach, and I roll my eyes, giggle.

"Anyways, since Ant is still getting his manhood waxed away hair by hair, why don't we discuss tactics?"

I toy with the plate of spaghetti. "I know a lot of edible plants."

"Good, good," Rose says. "Do you know how to use a knife?"

"No, but I could learn if I need to."

"You will."

"Then I'll learn. At training."

Truthfully, I don't think I'll have to. Yeah, I'll be in the Games, but ... surely the Capitol embellishes everything a bit? Surely, no one could slash another person with a knife. Surely they couldn't enjoy it. But if Rose wants me to train with a knife, well, then, I will. Just in case.

"You should go the more flighty route anyways," Rose says. "You're not built for head-on fights."

"I couldn't agree more! I figure I could just survive on plants, and then, well, I'll go from there."

Rose smiles. It's a little watered down on the edges. A little sad. "You'll do great, Dahlia."

**—**

I'm almost blinded by the lights when our horses make the first rounds around the crowd. I wave to the crowd through squinted eyes, shimmy my dress a little so it catches the light, smile so wide it almost touches my ears.

After the first fifteen minutes, though, I get bored, and my arm feels stiff from waving so often. I scope out the other tributes, surprised to see the girl from Six incandescent in a bleached white nurses outfit, tiny hat literally on fire. It burns, but she doesn't. The boy's hair is styled upwards, like he's just been electrocuted I suppose, and there's red splatters on his doctors coat. He looks anything but the part of mad doctor.

My personal favorite has to be the tributes from Three. The two of them are wearing matching full body suits, but the design on their clothes flickers as they move; it's like a reflecting television on their body. The Capitol citizens can't seem to get enough of staring at themselves, so it's a big hit.

Because I can't help myself, I unclench my fist and sneak a bite of my bread roll when the cameras focus on someone else. Mm. Delicious.

I throw the remaining bread into the crowd on a whim, but in the blur of wiggling masses, I don't see where it lands.

* * *

**Ant Kamper POV**

When my stylist, Weeblock, heard my name yesterday morning, she, and I quote, "felt so inspired I threw away my original creation and started from scratch." I'm dressed like an ant.

Before you start laughing, it's really not so bad. If you can look past the antennas, the mixed red shell of clothing I'm wearing doesn't look too bad. Perhaps the worst part is that I do actually resemble an ant. Back home, I know Rosemary and Holly are having a good laugh at my expense. I'm glad. They've had so little to laugh about lately.

I do the Tribute on Chariot thing**—**wave, smile, try to look tough and endurable while really I'm so nervous I could puke**—**and manage to survive unscathed. Hopefully not unnoticed, but I'm dressed like a giant ant. I figure, I could stand there like a brick and probably still be noticed.

Dahlia shovels half the table's food into her arms, smiles, and then flees to her room. I've never seen such a skinny girl eat so much. I can relate though. All this food is overwhelming. It has the opposite effect on me though**—**I don't want to eat another bite, not while I know my family back home is starving. It just doesn't seem fair.

I head to my room for a quick costume change and leave to search for Rose or Baisel. I need some advice, and badly. Should I go for allies? Should I tell people what I can do? Which isn't really much, but it's still something. I wonder if the judges would be impressed with climbing skills. What should my angle be? They've done this so many times before**, **I could use their expertise.

I'm just about to turn back around and go to bed**—** I'm dead tired**—**when I run smack into Rose. While I only stumble back a step or two, she slams into the wall behind her.

"Ow!" "Woah!"

"Sorry!" we say at the say time.

"I wasn't**—**"

"I should have been**—**"

We share an embarrassed laugh. Well, embarrassed on my part anyways.

"You go ahead**—**"

"What did you**—**"

Rose covers my mouth with her hand and glares at me. I hope she's just joking around. "I want to apologize, and if I have to duck tape your mouth shut to do so then I will. Okay?"

I nod. She takes her hand off my mouth and I suck in a greedy breathe, mostly just joking around. Despite her appearance, she's still got muscle.

"Sorry 'bout that," she says. "I was in a bit of hurry. Looking for you, actually."

"That's convenient. I was looking for you too."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Need advice?"

"Badly."

"I've got it all planned out," she says. "You'll go for the nice guy approach, because, well, that's what you are. Talk about your family back home. Play the sympathy card. Use them as your motive to get home. Learn how to use a knife. It's the most important thing you could do. Be yourself, but only show the part the Capitol wants to see. Allies will hold you back. Get it?"

I'm only slightly overwhelmed. "Got it."

"Good," she says, and I guess that's that.

* * *

If it sounds rushed, that's because it is. I just wanted to get this chapter out and done with. Super sorry for the wait. But hey! Only District Twelve left and then we're at the training! :D

Reviews = love.

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Dahlia**—**positive  
Ant**—**quiet

Thanks darlings!  
- Alactricity


	14. District Twelve Chariot Ride

Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of anything, except for a crap-load of homework.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
District Twelve Chariot Ride  
**

* * *

**Kimberly Hope Kerner POV**

Everything about the Capitol scares me**—**the people, the towering buildings, the fashion. Even the wriggling pink tentacle I was offered for lunch gave me the willies.

Koll notices my expression. Either that or he can sniff out fear. "You're smart," he says to me as we enter the Hunger Games building. It may be the first time anyone has ever called me that. "They may look silly with their pink hair, but the Capitol is a force to be reckoned with."

"They're evil," James mutters, and his tone is so venomous I'm taken aback. This is nothing like the shy guy I talked to on the train ride.

Luckily for him, Lollee is lagging behind to socialize with other escorts and doesn't hear his comment. I don't know much, but I do know insulting the Capitol is never a good idea.

"Better keep those opinions of yours on the down-low," Koll warns. His tone is light, but he looks around to see if anyone is watching anyways. "You never know who might be listening."

James snorts. "I don't care. Let them hear."

"You won't be saying that when they kill your family."

James pales, and I gasp at the brutality.

"Sorry guys." Koll sounds genuinely regretful. "But that's how this works. You don't listen, they ruin your life, your's families life, your friends life. Why do you think they're bringing the dead back as zombies? The Capitol likes to be in control. Power. Dominance."

I'd almost forgotten. The prospect of dieing and then having my body brought back to life without me in it is just … not normal. But … "What do you mean? How does that give them power?" I mumble the words, nibble on my fingernail.

Koll sighs and lowers his voice when we get on the elevator. Lollee is no where in sight. I'm not particularly sad about this. "The Capitol wants you to know that, even in death, they control you."

"Typical," James spits, but Koll looks at him like, What Did I Just Say? and he falls silent.

"Just remember," Koll reminds us as we stop in front of two doors marked _District Twelve Girl _and _District Twelve Boy_. "These people know what they're doing ... hopefully."

"Hopefully?" I squeak, but I'm already being ushered inside and miss his reply.

**—**

When my prep team is done with me, I look like a whole different person. My hair has been cut, styled, and dyed, so instead of my shoulder-length dirty blond hair, I now have a sleek black bob. I don't really care either way, although this new look will probably be a whole lot more manageable in the Arena.

The Arena. I gulp, but it hurts, like I'm trying to swallow a knife.

"Don't worry," Priama soothes. "Baxter should be here soon."

"You called?" a soft voice asks, and an old women carrying a clear bag enters the room. Her face is hard and shiny, the wrinkles that come with age probably surgically hidden. But her blue eyes look kind as she smiles at me. "Good works girls. You can go now."

The three cheerfully say goodbye, and I'm sad to see them go. Weird they might look, they prefer to prattle on about themselves for hours on end rather then try and engage me in a conversation, and that's my favorite kind of company.

"You're going to be smoke," Baxter explains as she unzips the bag. I almost don't see it at first. The material is translucent and watery, but the colors**—**black and gray**—**are swirled together to form a sort of odd design that hurts to look at and looks impossible to touch. "Since you and James are a bit young, I figured you'll probably want to try and be as elusive as possible. Like smoke."

I'm shocked she put so much though into my outfit. I'm shocked she managed to actually managed to recreate smoke in dress-form. Mostly I'm shocked she even cares. "Thank you," I say. "Really."

"Just doing my job." Baxter waves off my compliment like it's nothing. "Now go ahead**—**try it on!"

**—**

Even with all the lights blaring down on us, James and I look near invisible. I know I'm biased, but compared to the fur-clad District One tributes, who look like they've been swallowed by the head of a black bear, and the District Five tributes, who have been spray painted silver and wear extremely uncomfortable expressions, I really like my outfit.

On Koll's orders, James and I are holding hands and not waving. It's stupid, but every time I think about the fact his hand is in mine, I go scarlet. I can't even focus on waving to the crowd, like most of the other tributes are. "You're not supposed to look happy," Koll had said. "You're smoke. Impossible to catch. Hard to see. If you wave I'll chop your hands off myself."

I'm almost positive he was joking, but I still don't do much of anything besides strand straight and look out into the crowd. My mind wanders. I wonder what Mom thinks of my outfit. Of my new hair. I wonder if she misses me.

Because I'm suddenly overcome with regret that Mom and I didn't talk more, I wave, just once, to the camera. I hope she knows that it's meant for her.

* * *

**Jameson Smith Hender POV**

I don't hate a lot of things.

But I hate the Capitol. I hate their stupid accents and ridiculous clothes and most of all I hate the Hunger Games. I have done _nothing _wrong, I wasn't even born when the rebellion happened, and yet they continue to punish me, my family, my friends, my District, for something none of us had any control over.

I hate them. I will hate the Capitol until my dying breath and possibly even beyond, depending on how that whole zombie thing works. I don't care if they know. In fact, I'd prefer they do.

I have dreams about it, sometimes. Me. The President. "I hate you," I spit at him, cuss him out, mock his hair. I even insult his mother, for cripes sake. His expression reads politely amused, like I'm a little kid throwing a tantrum. He smiles, only it's not a smile at all, cold and threatening. His lips form words**—**

But I always wake up before he can say anything.

**—**

After the Chariots and a long, relaxing shower**—**in which I think I might have accidentally broken one of the knobs. Oops**—**I follow the smell of lamb leg and find Koll and Kimberly sitting at the long end table, looking clean but tired.

Kimberly's hair is still dark-as-night black, but it looks better that way, I think.

"Just the man I was looking for," Koll greets. "Do you mind talking about strategy with Kimberly here?"

Am I supposed to? "Um, no."

"Alright, cool." He takes a bite of his crab cake, and I sit down. My stomach is rumbling with hunger, but I don't want to eat the Capitols disgusting food. "What can you two do?"

"I guess I'm kind of sneaky," Kimberly mumbles, staring into her soup, and I nod in agreement.

"Yeah, I can do that too. And I know how to swim."

Koll clears his throat. "Either of you know how to use a weapon?"

Um ...

There's a long period of silence. "Sort of," I admit when it's evident Kimberly isn't going to say anything. "I know how to use a knife." They both stare at me, surprised, I guess, so I hurry to explain. "From cutting open bags. And stuff." I don't mention I used to practice with it when I was younger and terrified of being reaped. I dropped the habit a few years ago, and have never regretted anything more.

"That's great!" Koll compliments. "Work on that in training, and you can show it to the judges and probably get a decent score. Kimberly, you're probably better with learning edible plants."

She turns red and mutters something under her breath. "Sorry, what's that?"

"I said I can fight."

Koll looks incredulous, and does nothing to hide it. "You do know what the definition of fight is, right? Kimmie, you're tiny, and**—**"

"I can fight," she repeats, looking up from her soup. "And don't call me Kimmie."

I hope I don't look as shocked as Koll does. Kimberly is probably barely over five feet**—**heck, even I'm taller then her**—**and looks about as menacing as a baby kitten.

"Well ... alright then." Koll chews his food, looking contemplative. "Good. Okay. Great."

Kimberly goes back to eating her alphabet soup, and it looks _so good _I almost cave for a second. But I wouldn't eat their nasty garbage, drink their poison, if I was dying of hunger and that soup was the only food available.

I leave before my stomach can convince me otherwise.

* * *

Now that we've finished introducing all the tributes, I'm curious to know: whose your favorite?

Also, I don't know if any of you guys know**—**or care, really**—**but I keep sporadic updates about this story in my profile. I give away a bit of information sometimes. So ... yeah. R&R?

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Dahlia**—**positive  
Ant**—**quiet  
Kimberly**—**withdrawn  
James**—**kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	15. In Which Alliances Are Formed

A/N: This chapter was very fun to write. :P Also, someone mentioned they didn't think District One's Chariot outfit was luxurious enough. They were covered in furs, no? I'd say furs are pretty luxurious. Oh, and thanks to my beta, Rue-the-Marauder, who helped ensure everyone stayed in character.

Anyways, enjoy!

BTW: There are two Ava's. The one from Seven, and the one from Ten.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own the Hunger Games, and neither do you.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day One Training {In Which Some Alliances Are Formed}**

* * *

**Triston Enki POV (7)**

After spending the past two days with Ava, I've come to a conclusion: she's hot, but crazy. Really freaking crazy.

Link agrees with me.

"Yeah," he'd said last night after Ava stormed out of the dining room, ticked off that I complimented her new haircut. "Just try and stay on her good side when you get to the Arena, otherwise she might accidentally kill you."

"Good side?" I'd asked, incredulous. "She doesn't _have _a good side._"_

Link had shrugged. "You've got a point there. Sorry dude."

I'm running a brush through my hair when I hear a knock at my door. "What the hell is taking you so long?" Ava barks, and even though we're separated by the thick wood door I can hear her as if she's screaming in my ear. "I've been ready for ten minutes already. And I'm a girl!"

"Could have fooled me," I mutter.

She bangs on the door again. "I heard that!"

I give myself a quick once-over, satisfied when I see my deep brown hair has been brushed to perfection. "Coming, _Mom."_

"Would you just get over yourself?" she scowls as we join Link on the elevator. "We're probably going to be the last District there because of you."

"Ava, chill out," Link says. "We'll be right on time."

"Oh shut up you overgrown toddler."

Link ignores her. "Now remember, you guys are allying with District Three, so find them right away and decide on who should learn what at training today."

"Fine by me," I agree. The elevator doors open with a _bing_, so I miss Ava's exclaimed curse. I'm kind of disappointed**—**she comes up with the most inventive curse words I've ever heard.

A couple of the Careers cheer when we step out, and the guy from District One mutters, "_finally_." Did I really take that long? I'd feel bad about it, but, well, they're Careers. So I don't.

"Now that everyone is here," one of the instructors says, giving Ava and I a pointed look. Ava flips her the bird when she looks away. "We can begin training."

**— **

The first thing Ava and I do when we get inside is lean up against the wall, cool and nonchalant. Miracle of all miracles, we agreed that Three should come and find us, not the other way around.

It's not until everyone's settled down in their stations that the boy spots us, tugging on the girls arm to get her attention, and they make their way over.

"Hey," the guy says. "I'm Weston, and this is Seraphina."

"Triston," I introduce myself, run a hand through my hair, wink at Seraphina. "The crazy chick beside me is**—**"

Ava jabs me in the stomach with her pointy elbow. "Ava. I'm Ava. And I can bloody well introduce myself just fine, thanks."

"Good for you," I say, annoyed. She's so abusive I'm covered in bruises and we haven't even gotten to the Games yet. "So, Seraphina, you enjoying your stay at the Capitol?"

She shrugs. "Not particularly. I find it hard to enjoy the food and comfortable beds when I'm going to be fighting for my life in a few days."

"Oh," I say. "Awkward."

"What do you want to work on?" Weston asks, breaking the silence, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He looks around, scratches the back of his neck. "I should probably go learn a weapon or something."

"Whatever," I dismiss. "Ava, why don't you go with Weston and**—**"

"You are so presumptuous," she snaps. "I already know how to use a weapon, so stop telling me what to do!"

Why do I even bother?

"_Fine_," I stress the word. "Go do whatever the hell you want, just do it away from me."

Weston and Seraphina exchange looks.

"_How dare you**—**_"

"I think I'll go to camouflage for a bit," Seraphina interrupts, like Ava and I weren't just in the middle of an argument. "I'm good at that."

Ava rolls her eyes. "Oh, yes, because _camouflage_ is going to defend you against a giant ax."

Seraphina smiles. "I thought so too." She drifts off toward the camouflage station, the only person there, and Ava balls her hands into fists.

"Did she just make fun of me?"

WHO CARES? I want to scream. Without another word, I leave my messed up ally group and join the good-looking girl from Eleven at the edible plants station. "Well hello there."

* * *

**Jenna Leigh Bell POV (5) **

Since Ezra and I in an alliance, we both go to different stations and agree to swap the information we learned tonight. Yeah, maybe it isn't the best idea to get too attached to my ally, but Ezra is a great guy, and I can't imagine him stabbing me in the back.

The instructor is showing me how to hold a bow properly when I see something that, for a terrifying moment, makes my heart stop**—**is that, is that _Shane_? But no. It only looks just like him: same shaggy black hair, same gray eyes, same build and lips and, when he notices me staring and quirks an eyebrow, same habits.

My lips tingle at the memory. I remember how it felt when he closed the space between us, so close I could count each individual eyelash, how he whispered "please come home," and threaded a hand through my hair**—**

"Jenna!" my instructor interrupts, shocking me from my daydream, and I blush scarlet. "You almost just took out my foot! _Please _pay attention next time."

"Sorry," I whisper, mortified that I stared at the Shane look-a-like for so long, that I almost hurt the instructor.

The instructor goes back to showing me how to thread the arrows in the bow, but I'm only half-listening. What district is that boy from again? I know it's not any of the Career districts, but ... oh! Right! He's from Eight.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him struggle to lift a 100 pound weight_. _"Um, I'm going to go now," I interrupt the instructor, done with the bow-and-arrow. Strengthening my muscles suddenly seems like a much better idea.

**— **

I start off easy, with a five pound weight that I lift with one hand and toss around a bit. I feel a bit foolish, picking up pink weights when I'm surrounded by burly guys tossing a hundred or more pounds around like it's nothing, so I grab a twenty pounder and pretend I know what I'm doing.

Oh my God, it's so _heavy_. I struggle to pick it up with both hands, and once I do, I drop it almost immediately. It bounces on the floor, and someone, I think the guy from District Two, snickers.

I'm about to open my mouth to ask what's so dang funny when I remember he took the microphone from his escort, at the Reaping. He promised to rip each tribute apart limb from limb, I think. I inch away a bit, picking up the twenty again.

"Lifting weights?" Shane-look-a-like asks, raising an eyebrow. "You don't seem like the type."

I huff**—**if there's one thing I can't stand, it's judgmental people. "That shows how much you know."

Shane-look-a-like laughs and drops the weight he'd been holding. "Alright, you got me there." He holds out a hand. "I'm Crayne. And you are ...?"

"Jenna," I say, and it's like second grade all over again.

* * *

**Toris Louro POV (6)**

I know Katara said nothing about us being allies, but I had figured I could just follow her around all day and maybe she'd bring it up. I'm beginning to suspect she's capable of reading minds when she makes a bee-line for the last place I wanted to go, the knife-throwing station, and proceeds to kill the dummy six shots in a row.

_Alright Katara,_ I think. _You win this round_.

I walk around in circles for a few minutes, not sure where to go. Somewhere empty would be preferable, but the only empty station is the one where you learn how to tie a knot correctly. Maybe it's because the instructor looks like a burly man when I'm almost positive she's a girl because she has**—**well, I mean, she has ... girl parts.

I sigh. Oh well. Looks like I'll have to risk it.

"H-hi," I stutter. "I'm here to learn k-knots."

"You're at the knot station," he/she/it interrupts. He/she/it's voice is deep and gravelly, like a fully grown man. "Don't you think I know that?"

I chuckle, nervous. "Oh. R-right."

The instructor demonstrates how to tie a noose**—**"Great for killing off those pesky enemies. Under-appreciated, but it works like a charm every time."**—**and is just going through the finer points of how to tie two pieces of rope together when another tribute comes up, all smiles.

"Hi," she says to me. Wait. Me? Why is she talking to me? "What're you doing?"

I gesture to the instructor. "He, er ... she, um, this fine i-instructor is showing me some knots."

"That's cool," she says. _No, it's not_, I think. "Anyways, I, um, I came over here to ask if you wanted to join an alliance with Roland**—**he's from Ten**—**and I." She blushes a bit, starts nibbling on a cracker from who knows where. "Don't feel pressured or anything, but ... yeah."

I'm still in shock she asked me to join their alliance, but grateful none-the-less. Probably they just scoped out the tributes and figured I look sane enough to join them. Maybe they know I'm a pushover. Still, the last thing I want is to go into the arena with 23 enemies. "That'd be awesome!" I enthuse. Then, quieter, "I mean ... yeah, okay."

"Oh, I almost forgot." She giggles, swallows her food. "I'm Dahlia."

I try and channel my inner Edward**—**he's always calm, cool, collected, the opposite of me. "Toris."

Dahlia beams at me. "This is going to be so great."

"Don't forget the noose!" the instructor calls as we leave. "It could save your life!"'

* * *

**Maya Jook POV (1)**

I don't know why we have to stop training for lunch. I'm not hungry**—**except for maybe the flesh of my competition (just kidding). But really, I'd rather be showing off my skills then chowing down on steak, no matter how good it tastes.

Plus, lunch means I have to sit with the other Careers, which means socializing with the nuggets who think they can beat me.

"The competition this year is just sad," Scene says the moment we all sit down at the table. "Utterly pathetic." He flips his hair.

Maren takes a bite of her sandwich, taking extra care to ensure she's not sitting near Skippy. "They're not all bad. That girl from Six was pretty handy with a knife."

"I'll kill them all," Drampton interrupts. "I'll kill you losers, too."

"Not if I kill you first," Katalina shoots back.

I smirk. "How can you kill him when I'll have already killed you?"

Scene flips his hair again. "Maya, please, we all know you're too much of a wimp to kill anyone."

The more I'm hanging around him, the more I hate Scene. He's arrogant without good reason, acts like a spoiled baby when he doesn't get his way, and has this ridiculous notion that I'm still pining over him. "I know you miss me, baby," he'd said yesterday after the Chariots. "And I know it's hard to resist all this, but you have to stay strong." I'd wanted to punch him in his stupid head _sooo _badly.

"Shut the hell up, Scene, and stop acting like you know me when you don't!" I snap, tearing a piece of my steak off with my bare hands and chewing viciously.

"I know what bra size you wore three years ago, and judging by how you look now, I'm willing to bet it's still the same. Pity. You always were really small."

Maren snorts with laughter. "Oh my God, burn!"

"Raghh!" I scream wordlessly, pick up my knife, lean forward to cut off a piece of his hair, and he scrambles backwards.

"Holy crap, chill out! It was just a joke!"

I stab him in the chest with the dull end of the knife. "If you don't shut the hell up and sit down I will sneak into your room tonight and shave you bald. You hear me?"

Scene pouts, his lower lip sticking out. He looks ridiculous. "You can join me in my room tonight baby, but don't shave me bald."

I breathe in deeply. I count to ten. I pick up my steak, and chuck it at his face.

"Alright," I hear Katalina say through Maren and Skippy's howling laughter, through Drampton's annoyed grunts. "I'm joining a new alliance, you guys are crazy."

* * *

**Jameson Smith Hender POV (12) **

In the few hours between training and lunch, I've made three allies: Kimberly, my District partner; Kaaya, from Nine; and Ava, from Ten.

We've all banded together since we're some of the youngest in the competition, I guess. And yeah, it's a little awkward being the only guy in a group full of girls, but they're all so nice I don't mind.

"So," Ava says as she swallows a spoonful of mashed potatoes. "Do you guys feel like you've learned anything important?"

I eat a bite of my cheese sandwich. I know I said yesterday that I wouldn't eat Capitol food if I was dying of starvation, but last night, my stomach overpowered me. I figure, if I die of starvation from not eating, I'm only letting them win. But I stick with foods I recognize from home**—**like cheese sandwiches.

"The edible plants station was pretty helpful," I say, and Kimberly nods in agreement.

"I guess so," Kaaya says, eyes wide with worry. "But did you _see_ the Careers?"

"Don't worry about it now," Ava says, swirling the straw in her water. "You'll only stress yourself out."

"Yeah," Kaaya wails. "Because they're terrifying!" A few people turn to look at our table, and Kaaya falls silent, face aflame.

Damn the Capitol. It's their fault innocent people like Kaaya have to go through this every year. People like Kimberly, and Ava. And me.

We lapse into silence, not really knowing what to say. I'm about to cut the crust off my sandwich when the Career table bursts into noise, and we**—**along with the rest of the cafeteria**—**look over in time to see steak sauce dripping off the guy from District One's face. The tributes from Four are laughing so hard they're crying.

"Poor guy," Ava says. "What do you think happened?"

I shrug, like, Who Knows? Careers are notorious for being crazy. So when the girl from Two leaves the Careers and starts weaving her way through the rows, stopping at our table, we all exchange looks.

I can't even tell she's crying until she's right in front of us. "Um, hi guys," she sniffles. "I just wanted to know if I could join your group. I don't know what I was thinking, volunteering. The Careers are so s-scary! Did you see Maya throw that steak? And Drampton threatened to k-kill me!" I'm not sure if she realizes half the cafeteria is listening.

"Yeah, okay," Kimberly says at the same time Ava blurts, "No way!"

"There's no reason to be rude," Kimberly protests.

"She's a career!"

A few tears carve a path down Two's cheek. "But I'm not! I only volunteered because my dad, he hates me, and my mom died giving birth to me. I just wanted to be a little less lonely." She looks up at us with perhaps the most pitiful expression I've ever seen.

"You can join our group," Kimberly says, chewing on a fingernail. "But we'll be watching you**—**so no funny business."

Two crosses her heart. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Ava stands up, looking confused, conflicted. "But guys, she's _lying. _It's just a trick!"

Kimberly scoffs. "Ava, be reasonable. Why would she want to "pretend" to be our ally?"

"To kill you!" Ava wails, as if the answer couldn't be more obvious.

"I think you're just jealous," Kaaya mumbles, and Ava's face reads pure shock, pure hurt.

I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, Two could be lying to us. On the other, she hasn't done anything wrong, and with a jolt I remember she's only thirteen. That's younger then me.

"Ava, it's not a big deal," I begin. "We just won't let her keep watch, and kick her out if she tries anything."

"But**—**"

"If you don't like it so much, why don't you just**—**just leave?" Kaaya says.

I feel for Ava, I really do, but I have to wonder why she's flipping out. Two seems fine, if a little distrustful. But aren't we all? All alliances end at one point or another. There can only be one winner.

Immediately after I think that, a nervous pit forms in my stomach. One winner. There's 24 of us. Oh, God. This is so much worse when you're not watching it from behind a television screen.

"Well, fine!" she says, crying in earnest now. "If that's how you guys really feel, I'll just find another alliance." She flees from the cafeteria.

"Wait, Ava**—**" I call out, but either she doesn't hear me, or she's ignoring me. I hope it's not the latter.

When I look around, people avoid my eyes, like they were just watching but don't want me to know. My sandwich doesn't look as appetizing as it did a moment ago, and Kaaya looks shocked, like she can't believe she just said that.

"By the way," Two says as she takes Ava's seat. "I'm Katalina."

And she smiles, like the cat that just swallowed the canary.

* * *

**Katara Mizu POV (6)**

After the drama of lunch, I find great comfort in the smooth handle of the assassin knives.

I know I should probably be working at other stations**—**camouflage, edible plants, maybe**—**but I'm good at throwing knives. Great, actually.

I'm just getting into the rhythm again when I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I whirl around, still tense.

It's Maren, from District Four, and she looks at me in mock alarm. "Don't shoot!"

"I'm throwing knives, actually," I say.

Maren's expression sours slightly. "It's just a saying. Anyways, that's not what I came here for. We," she gestures to the Careers spread around the training center. "Talked it over, and since loser Katalina left, we wanted to know if you'd like to join our alliance!" She smiles at me, like she knows all my dreams have just come true.

"No thanks," I decline, polite but firm, and turn around to resume my training.

She's silent for a moment. "Excuse me?"

I sigh, resigning myself to more drama. "No thanks? It means no, I'm denying your invitation to join your little alliance. Thanks is my way of being polite about it."

"I know what no thanks means!"

"Then why bother asking?"

Maren's usually serene face is scrunched in annoyance. "God, you're a real bitch," she snarls. "Never mind. Consider your offer revoked."

"I never even considered it an offer at all."

She leans in close to me, face red. "You're dead, Six."

I struggle to stay calm. The last thing I want to do is tick off the Careers. It's too late for me to back down now though.

"Funny," I muse. "You'd of thought I stopped walking."

As Maren huffs and walks away, I leave to another station. My hand is shaking too badly to hold the knife properly.

* * *

**Ant Kamper POV (11) **

Maybe drinking so much at lunch wasn't a great idea after all.

I tap an instructor who doesn't look too busy on the shoulder, and ask, "Do you know where the bathrooms are?"

"Sure thing," he says. "Out that door, through the cafeteria, make an immediate right and you'll see the bathrooms."

"Thanks," I say, hurrying out the doors before my bladder explodes all over the other tributes.

**—**

It's not until I'm leaving the bathroom that I hear it**—**a kind of muffled crying, coming from the girl's restroom.

_Not my problem, _I tell myself. My arm decides not to listen, and I find myself knocking on the door. "Um … hello?"

Someone sniffles. "This is the girl's bathroom!"

I scratch the back of my neck. "Yeah, I know. I just wanted to know if**—**um, are you alright?"

There's more sniffling, the sound of a toilet flushing, and then the door cracks opens an inch. I can barely see a blue eye peer out at me. "I guess so," she says, opening the door further and stepping outside. Under the fluorescent light, cheeks red and blotchy from crying, I recognize her as the tribute from Ten.

She's the same age as my sister, Holly.

"I know I look silly," she mutters, wiping away dried tears. "I just cry really easily."

Replace the blond hair and blue eyes for brown hair and green eyes, and she could be Holly's incarnate.

"No worries," I say. "I take it you're upset about what happened at lunch?"

She looks up at me, horrified. "You heard that?"

"Just the last bit," I lie. I don't think she needs to know the entire cafeteria probably heard that. "Sorry about your friends."

"Yeah," she says. "I don't know why they won't believe me. Katalina isn't**—**well, she's just not a very nice girl!"

I suspected foul play, too. "They'll come around," I lie again. "Don't stress about it."

Her lower lip begins to quiver. "But what if they don't? I don't want to go into the arena by myself!"

I'm such a sucker. "You can be my ally, how's that?"

She perks up. "Really?"

"Sure," I say. "You seem like you'd be a good ally."

"Yeah, definitely!"

I hold out my hand, trying to ignore the fact Rose specifically said no allies, let alone aligning myself with a tiny thirteen-year-old. "I'm Ant. "

Predictably, she stifles giggles behind her hand. Most girls do when they first hear my name. "Ava." She shakes my hand, still laughing.

"We should probably go back to the training center," I suggest. "Practice a bit more."

"Okay," she nods. "I still don't know what to do for tomorrow."

"You ever throw a knife before?" I ask, and she shakes her head no. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

* * *

Longest chapter yet, guys. (:

If a character wasn't mentioned in this chapter, they'll be mentioned in the next one, I promise.

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Dahlia**—**positive  
Ant**—**quiet  
Kimberly**—**withdrawn  
James**—**kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	16. In Which Scores Are Given

A/N: It appears I've been misspelling Ava's name this entire time. The girl tribute from ten is actually named A_y_a. Whoops. & This isn't the most action-packed, interesting chapter. Just a bit slow. A peak into the mind of the quiet tributes, I guess. Actually, now that I'm done and re-writing this A/N, this is one of my least favorite chapters. Sorry guys. I'm tired, not very inspired, and anxious to move on. I had no clue what to write. I apologize.

Disclaimer: I own the Hunger Games. Also, I sprouted wings last night.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day Two Training {In Which Scores Are Given} **

* * *

**Scene Decker POV**

I love an audience. I do _better_ with an audience. I'm great at what I do, and I want everyone else to know it, too. My only regret is that the auditions with the Gamemakers can't be televised.

Carmella looks at me through half-lidded eyes, dark dashes accenting her pale skin. For someone from District One, she's pretty ugly. "You know what you're going to do?" she rasps.

"Duh," I scoff. "I've only been training for this my entire life."

"Don't be a prick," Maya says.

"_Don't be a prick_," I mock, and her permanent scowls deepens. That's her one and only expression, and I'm telling you, I won't be surprised when she wakes up one day to find out her face is stuck that way. Whatever. It isn't like it'd make her look any worse.

Carmella tips her head back and chugs a clear glass of scotch, the ice cubes clinking together. "You better go."

No shit.

I turn around to step onto the elevator just in time to see Maya jabbing the close button, and even though I lunge forward, it closes shut in front of me. "You suck!" I scream, and I don't think it's just my imagination when I hear cackling laughter.

**—**

I wow the judges of course, doing a mixture of weight-tossing, knife-throwing, and, just for a little flavor, I slice a dummy's head clean off with the wicked edge of a sword by tossing it from across the room like a boomerang.

Sometimes I surprise even myself with how awesome I am.

**—**

Nervous? Me? Please. I'm probably going to get a Twelve, the only District One tribute to do so in over a decade.

I'm sucking the meat off a chicken wing a few hours later when I see a glossy photo of myself on the television. Damn, I look _good_. Sleek blond hair, perfect skin, blue eyes; the whole package.

Even though Maya's standing behind me, I know she's tense. Probably her arms are crossed, her eyes are narrowed. Even after all these years I still know her habits, even if she thinks I don't.

A large, red ten flashes next to my head, and my smirk falters. A _ten_? What. The. Hell?

Maya snickers. "You've been training since you were five, and the best you get is a ten? _Laaaaame_."

"Like you can do better!"

Next to Maya's overinflated head is the number ten. I turn around to point a finger and stick out my tongue at Maya's shocked face.

"HA!"

Carmella sighs through her nose, so it sounds like a whistle. "You two are the most immature tributes I've had in many years."

I stick my tongue out at her, too. Her opinion means nothing to me.

* * *

**Liesl Lisbon POV **

I'm not much for alliances**—**I barely agreed to the one with my District partner, and that's only because I was feeling particularly lonely at the time**—**so when Crayne came up to me last night and told me how he'd allies us with the tributes from Five, I almost said something for the first time in days.

So much for our alliance. Aren't we supposed to be on equal footing? Discuss decisions among each other first before blindly agreeing? I'd leave the group of four, but it's not worth the effort, and I can't think of a polite way of saying I think the three of them are destined for bloodbath deaths.

Books. I know books. To calm my beating heart, I recite a list of my favorite authors, my favorite poems.

"Ready?" Crayne asks me with a lift of his eyebrows. Some girls may find it endearing, but after seeing nothing but raised eyebrows the past few days I'm sick of it.

I nod affirmative, and pretend not to hear Crayne mutter, "do you _ever _talk?" under his breath.

**—**

I'm not strong, or skilled with a weapon, and I didn't waste my time yesterday trying to learn one. It's all about muscle memory, none of which you can get in a day. Either you have it or you don't. My strategy is, at first glance, simple.

Wit. Intelligence. Cunning.

I read a book once, from Before. The pages crumbled at a touch, and the type was foreign, faded. But it's one of my all-time favorite reads. Like the tale of Athena and Poseidon, even brawn's has to bow down to brains sometimes.

Because I can't simply show the Gamemakers my intelligence, I do a small aerobics routine, barely sticking the landing of my backflip. Destined to get me a high score? Hardly. Do I care? Well, only a smidgen. I just want to do better then Crayne.

**—**

I pretend not to feel jealous when Crayne get's a seven, myself a six. It's better than Jenna's five, at least.

"Ezra did good," Crayne acknowledges with a nod. "An eight, impressive."

I shrug. Compared to the male from Two's score of eleven, an eight is child's play.

Just as I pretend not to be upset with my score, Naomi pretends they're not awful. "We could probably get some sponsors," she reasons to the guy who's name I still don't know. "It could have been worse."

"Coulda been a helluva lot better, too," he acknowledges. "I got an eight myself, and I didn't know jack."

Naomi frowns. "I got a five, and look where I am now."

"Cleaning up kids for the slaughtering house. You're right, what a life."

"Alive," she corrects, and a quote I scoured from the library many years comes to mind:_ Unbeing dead isn't being alive._

The Capitol is turning the dead into zombies for the Quarter Quell. Naomi only beat them to the punch.

* * *

**Steve Renbar POV**

People tend to forget about me. Usually it makes for a lonely existence, but I've learned, when it comes to the Hunger Games, blending in is good. I can eavesdrop on conversations, be overlooked and forgotten while the other 23 tributes duke it out amongst themselves.

I can win by default.

To stick with the 'average' persona I'm going for, I throw a knife with decent aim for a few minutes and feel pleased when I get a seven. Not bad. Not good. Just average.

Lianna grimaces sympathetically, but it's lacking sincerity. "Don't feel too bad," she tells me. "Kaaya got a six."

From beside me, Kaaya's eyes fill with tears. "A six is alright," I say. She sniffles anyways.

I'm not tired, but with nothing better to do, I change into pajamas and stare at the ceiling, thinking of home.

I'm a simple guy, with simple needs, simple emotions. I miss Conner, Mom, Dad. I miss my dull but reassuring life. I miss waking up without a horrible pit of dread in my stomach. I even miss the smell of shoe cleaner, despite how much I hated it back in Nine.

What did I do to deserve this? I'm not rebellious. I finish my shoe quota every month without fail. I'm a model citizen. Yet I was reaped anyways.

I roll over in bed, not sure who I hate more: the Capitol, or the rebels who caused the Hunger Games to begin with.

* * *

**Seraphina Halliwell POV**

Whenever I close my eyes, I see pictures, tattooed onto the back of my eyelids. A sunset. Grass. A puddle of water reflecting the sky. Sometimes my family, but mostly nature. My life revolves around the things people don't seem to have any time for, after all.

Weston bounces around me as we wait for our scores. I like him. He reminds me of my sisters. Youth. Not everyone feels the same way, because Jeanie snaps, "Just sit down, would you?" when he does a somersault onto the couch.

He looks properly chastised, and plops down with a dramatic sigh. I hide a smile behind my hands.

For my session with the Gamemakers, I painted myself into the scenery behind me. It was a bit hurried, but I rather liked it. Weston said he just blew up a fire to dangerous proportions, which I could see happening.

When we both get sevens, Jeanie bursts into tears. "Sevens!"

"Don't be hatin' on the sevens," Weston says, giving me a high five. "They're pretty good."

I happen to agree, but Jeanie can't be consoled, or reasoned with, and she runs from the room in tears.

"Mood kill," Weston sing-songs, and I laugh lightly.

"Yes, she didn't look too pleased."

Aya and Triston get a seven and eight, respectively. Aya reminds me of a hornwasp, always buzzing, stinging. I can almost see what she'd say about Triston getting a better score, and feel a flare of sympathy for him.

Weston is yet again in agreement. "Dude," he groans. "I feel so bad for Triston. That crazy girl must be losing her shit right about now."

It amuses me, to see how different humans are**—**where as I think of Aya in terms of a metaphor, Weston uses crude language to get his point across. Both equally effective. Just different.

**—**

I've never seen the ocean before, but that night, I dream of its churning waters and for the first time feel real desire to win the Games, if only to visit District Four on the Victory Tour.

* * *

Because I didn't mention everybody, here's the full list of the scores:

Maya: 10  
Scene: 10  
Katalina: 10  
Drampton: 11  
Seraphina: 7  
Weston: 7  
Maren: 9  
Skippy: 9  
Jenna: 5  
Ezra: 8  
Katara: 10  
Toris: 5  
Aya: 7  
Triston: 8  
Liesl: 6  
Crayne: 7  
Kaaya: 6  
Steve: 7  
Ava: 7  
Roland: 5  
Dahlia: 6  
Ant: 8  
Kimberly: 10  
Jameson: 7

Back to our regular authors notes ...

Maya**—**angry  
Scene**—**arrogant  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Katara**—**observant  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Dahlia**—**positive  
Ant**—**quiet  
Kimberly**—**withdrawn  
James**—**kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	17. In Which We Learn Not To Play With Fire

A/N: To make up for the craptastic last chapter, I tried to make this one better. Hopefully you guys dig it.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Interviews, and Why We Don't Play With Fire  
**

* * *

**Drampton Kraftus POV (2) **

The Career alliance is a joke. Maya and Scene can't see be in the same room without exploding at each other, Maren refuses to get within five feet of Skippy, and Skippy ... well, the dude's name is Skippy. 'Nuff said.

If it weren't for the fact I'm almost positive they'll all end up killing each other the moment we get in the arena, I wouldn't even bother with the supposed Career alliance. Careers have been getting weaker by the year, and I'm disgusted.

Where's the competition? The thrill? Everyone already knows I'm going to win. I just want to see how gruesome I can make the deaths.

"You'll go for the evil approach," my mentor, Hugh, tells me over a breakfast of grapefruit slices with sugar and probably ten pounds of oatmeal. "Because ... well, you are."

"Very evil," Katalina agrees, and I stoically ignore them both. I already know what I'm going to do, I don't need Hugh's unhelpful input.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the Capitol freak opening his mouth to say something stupid, and I cut him off with a slow shake of my head. Katalina and Hugh exchange looks. I don't care. If I had it my way, Hugh would be dead with my fork in his eyeball and Katalina's severed limbs would be spread throughout the building.

—

I have to suffer through two interviews by Dumb and Dumber, who I couldn't care less about, before it's my turn.

"It's wonderful to have you here!" Capitol freak says through a plastic smile as I sit down, simple black suit rustling against the fabric of the couch. "Drampton, is it?"

"Yes."

"Everyone's been talking about your score," she says in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close. "How _did_ you get that eleven?"

"Can't say."

Capitol freak laughs. "Oh, we know by now! Still, that doesn't stop us from asking."

When I say nothing, she barrels on. "There are so many Careers—how do you plan on winning?"

"Please," I scoff. "Those other tributes are poor excuses for Careers. If they don't pick each other off first, I'll just kill them all at once."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Some tough words! Your district partner got a ten, that's not bad at all."

"And she's half my size," I counter. "I could squish her underneath my feet like the bug she is."

No doubt eager to change the topic, Capitol freak bombards me with meaningless questions about District One that I brush off impatiently. Real sponsors don't care about my home life, they just want me to win.

When my three minutes is up, I can hear boo's—but they're nearly drowned out by the wild cheering of the crowd.

* * *

**Maren Preswick POV (4) **

While Skippy's interview personality was decided to be 'I'm so hot' by a unanimous vote by both the mentors and the escort, we've yet to choose my personality. I'm not the kind of person that has one adjective that describes them well. I like to think I'm more complex then that.

"What about sexy?" Sandy offers.

Alga shakes his head no almost immediately. "Maren isn't pretty enough for that."

Skippy snickers, and I try not to feel too offended. "Can't I just be myself?"

"No," Sandy, Alga, Skippy and Carleen say at once.

I pout. "What the hell you guys. Skippy's the one who threw up on me!"

"Yes," Alga says. "But while he laughed it off, you stood there on the middle of the stage and cried."

"I was covered in stomach fluids!" I wail, itching to pinch Skippy on the arm but not daring to come close enough.

Sandy shakes her head. "Honey, it's press. With 23 other tributes, you _need_ press."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," I counter. I can still feel the vomit seeping into my shoes, splattering my new dress, the smell sickly and sweet and putrid at the same time. I shudder.

"Mysterious could always work," Alga brainstorms.

Carleen shakes her head so vigorously the bright blue wig shifts to the left. "Take it from me, no one cares for the mysterious kind."

"That's because they're boring as hell," I mutter, and Carleen breaks into high-pitched, three-year-old little girl giggles.

Sandy sits up rim-rod straight in her cushion-y chair, and I can almost see the lightbulb. "How about funny? You could do funny."

Alga makes a face. "I don't know..." He turns to me. "Say something funny."

"Something funny."

"Oh hardee har har."

I pretend to bow. "Thank you, thank you."

—

After spending hours tottering around on ten inch heels and trying to hold a scintillating conversation with Carleen yesterday, I'm anxious to get the interviews over with. After watching Maya and Scene dominate the conversation, Drampton threaten Katalina, Katalina tearfully admit to leaving the Career group, Seraphina floating through her interview, Weston literally getting on the couch to bounce during his, and Skippy sharing a laugh with the interviewer, Hanya Hays, about his Reaping Day mishap, it's finally my turn.

"You look fabulous!" Hanya compliments me the moment I sit down, and even though I feel a bit uncomfortable in the short, olive-gray dress that's meant to bring out my eyes, extensions painfully attached to my head and glittery gems glued to the sides of my eyes, I smile pleasantly, flashing white teeth.

"Only after ten hours of my prep team working on me," I joke, gesturing to her sweeping orange ballgown and matching hair, matching skin. "I _love_ your look."

She smooths out her dress. "Why thank you!"

"Yeah," I continue. "Did an orange explode on you this morning, or is that look on purpose?"

If anything, her smile grows wider. "I'm a messy eater. But enough about me—the Capitol is just _dieing _to know about you."

"What about?"

Hanya waves a hand flippantly. "Oh, this and that. Mostly how you felt during your Reaping! That couldn't have been pleasant."

I suppress a sigh; I'd been hoping to avoid this. "Actually, I heard throw up is good for the skin."

She looks intrigued. "Really?"

"No."

The audience laughs, and I'm pleased. There's nothing worse then a tribute trying to be funny and ending up staler then the bread from Twelve.

Hanya and I talk about home, my parents, touch a little bit upon my score, and before I know it the timer buzzes and what I spent all of yesterday practicing for is over.

* * *

**Weston Blackwood POV (3) **

Yesterday was torture. Jeanie tried to make me sit completely still for twenty minutes straight, and I was like, "Jeanie, baby, I love ya, but that ain't happening."

She snapped at me to quit practicing my accents.

Still, the best I could manage was sitting on that small wooden chair for three minutes without fidgeting or getting up out of my seat. I've always been energetic—the teachers back home _hated _me—and I'm not going to change my entire personality for one stinkin' interview. It's three minutes, for cripes sake!

"Do you know what you what your angle to be?" Knut asked yesterday. "We can rule handsome out ..."

"What's with you guys and hating on me?" I'd whined. "I think my angle should be devilishly handsome."

Knut rolled her eyes. "Maybe your angle should be annoying."

All bantering aside, we—and by we I mean myself—decided I'd just go out there and be my usual effortlessly charming self.

"Hey Hanya," I greet as I take a seat on the couch. My naturally curly hair has been styled into tight blond coils, my skin tanned over so my freckles are hidden, and I'm wearing a loose-fitting black silk shirt with uncomfortably tight pants, probably to hide the fact I don't have a lot of upper body strength but have a nice butt—the prep teams words, not mind. Although I do admit to having an unnaturally good-looking backside. Once, I'd been walking along, minding my own business, when I heard a wolf-whistle from behind me. I turned around ... and the girl grimaced. "Oh," she'd said. "Your butt was so nice, I thought you'd look cuter."

I tell this story to Hanya now when she mentions the pants, and it gets a good laugh out of the audience. I'm just not sure if it's _at _me or _with _me. And yes, there is a difference.

"You seem like a fun guy," Hanya says. "You must have a girl back home."

"Nah," I say. "I've been saving myself for you." I wink at her, and the crowd titters. It's no big deal. Not only is she like, twenty years older then me, but it's all just fun and games. A three minute interview. Every second has to count.

Hanya tucks a piece of short orange hair behind her ear, and the mood turns uncharacteristically serious. I don't like it. "Do you think you can win the Games, Weston?"

Hell to the no. "With my hands tied behind my back."

"Those are some big words for a guy who only got a nine!"

I shrug it off. "When you see me in action tomorrow, you'll understand what I mean."

"So, the Capitol. It must be a big change from District Three. How are you liking it?"

"Very different," I agree. "My favorite part has to be the furniture."

She looks baffled. "The furniture?"

"Yeah." To prove my point, I jump up onto the couch and begin to bounce. "I didn't know such bouncy couches even existed!"

Just as I'm getting warmed up, the three minutes is up. I'm almost sad to see my time gobbled up like that. Only, I'm being interviewed for the Hunger Games, and I'll probably be dead by tomorrow. Somehow, it puts a damper on things.

* * *

**Aya Jansen POV (7)**

The interviews. I'm _not _looking forward to those. I don't go around broadcasting it, but I'm not exactly a people person, and have trouble going two minutes without blowing up at someone. Or something. Sometimes both.

"Maybe you could fake a voice injury," Link offered yesterday, after I reluctantly voiced my concerns aloud. "Or pantomime your answers."

I'd lost it of course, no surprise there. "Could you be serious for once in your damn life?" I'd complained. "This is my life on the line here!"

"I am being serious!" he'd protested, which somehow made it a little bit worse.

After a few hours of idle contemplation and snapped insults by moi to keep things spicy, we'd come to a conclusion: my interview angle would be fiery red head. Literally. My stylist was going to set my hair ablaze.

—

I'll admit it—I'm nervous. Nervous to be talking in front of, quite literally, the entire world. Nervous I'll let my anger get the best of me. Mostly I'm nervous my hair will catch on fire and I'll be burnt to a crisp before the Games even begin.

I'm dressed in an orange dress, swirls of red threaded into the fabric. Using a special chemical mixture, my stylist Benito was able to lite my hair on fire without me feeling it. He'd admitted that this was the first time he'd ever used this, that it was a creation of his own, but by the time he said that I was already being ushered to the stage. Needless to say the other tributes are giving me a wide berth. Either that or they know me and are keeping a wide berth anyways. I hope it's the former.

"Wow!" Hanya exclaims as I sit down across from her. She leans in closer to look at my hair. "Is that real fire?"

"Unfortunately," I blurt without thinking. Then, to redeem myself, "looks cool, doesn't it?"

"Looks hot you mean."

I pretend to find this funny and laugh along with the crowd.

"So, Aya. How do you plan on winning the games?"

"By dominating the competition, of course." I clench my hand into a fist. "No one will escape my fury."

Hanya is either a great actress, or genuinely cares about what I'm saying. "Fury? What are you angry at?"

I'm just about to answer—everything, everyone, nothing, no one—when I feel something fall into my lap. What the—?

I look down. And scream. "_HOLY SHIT!" _I shoot straight off the couch, brushing the clump of red hair off my lap and onto the stage, which promptly bursts into flames. Now that I'm paying attention, I can feel it—clumps of hair just burning clean off my scalp. Hanya springs into action, stamping out the flames with her orange high heels, but the crowd is in a frenzy.

I don't consider myself vain—but me? Bald? Please, _please_, no. I don't look good bald! I barely look good with hair!

Choosing to ignore the hair crisis, I use the rest of my interview time stamping out small puddles of flame. There are circles of charred wood when we're done, but at least officials have quieted down the crowd.

Hanya blinks at me. She squints, and then looks at me again. Then, at the same time as the crowd, the entirety of Panem dissolves into hysterical laughter.

—

The rest of the interviews pass in a blur. I spend the rest of the time trying not to cry—in anger, frustration, humiliation. Maybe even sadness.

Despite Link's protests, I make a bee-line to the bathroom as soon as I'm off the stage. In my shocked state, I only have one coherent thought: Link is going to have to think up a new angle for me—how can I be a fiery red head ... when I don't have any red hair at all?

* * *

ONE MORE CHAPTER UNTIL THE GAMES:DDDDD

Maya—angry  
Scene—arrogant  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless  
Seraphina—dreamer  
Weston—energetic  
Maren—upbeat  
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna—sweet  
Ezra—mature  
Katara—observant  
Toris—shy  
Ava—brash  
Triston—player  
Liesl—intelligent  
Crayne—mysterious  
Kaaya—scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava—adorable  
Roland—timid  
Dahlia—positive  
Ant—quiet  
Kimberly—withdrawn  
James—kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity**  
**


	18. In Which The Interviews Come To A Close

A/N: GUESS WHERE THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE? No, not Mars. The _arena_! Oh, wait. No. The next chapter will be sponsoring information. But after that, I swear it's going to be in the arena. :P

Oh, and sorry for the wait. I was almost done & then my internet gave out & I lost everything. Cue music of DOOM.

Disclaimer: Nope.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
In Which The Interviews Come To A Close  
**

* * *

**Crayne Lyde POV (8)**

"Back straight!" Felicity barks, eyes narrowed in disgust. "Your posture is appalling."

I roll my eyes, sit up straight. "Love you too."

"Now, pretend I'm Hanya and answer my questions, okay?"

"Whatever."

She ignores my enthusiastic response. "What do you think of the Capitol so far, Crayne?"

"It's clean."

"But how are _you _liking it?"

Unconsciously, I slouch in my chair. "Fine."

Felicity shakes her head. "Right now, you're about as interesting as a piece of cardboard. You know what your problem is? You aren't personal. No one can relate to you if you're not personal. Try again. _And stop slouching!_"

"The Capitol is just _peachy_," I say.

"Look, Crayne," Felicity huffs. "I've been talking to you for the past three days and I don't know a single thing about you. How is the Capitol going to get a sense of your personality in just three_ minutes _if you don't open up?"

"You know my name," I interject. "And I fail to see how my business is any of your business anyways."

Felicity throws her hands in the air. "You're in the Capitol! There are no secrets here."

"Can't I just be mysterious?" I complain. "Lots of people go for that angle, and I don't want the whole world knowing everything about me."

"What's the big deal?" she wants to know. "It's just an interview."

"Not to me," I mutter, and leave.

—

Since Felicity is from the Capitol and never eats, I figure the best hiding spot would be the cafeteria. There's only a few people there; my newest ally is one of them.

"Hey Jenna," I greet, sliding into the seat next to her.

She swallows and looks up at me, her cheeks faintly pink. "Oh, hi Crayne. What're you doing here?"

"Hiding from Felicity," I explain with a roll of my eyes. "She's so nosy, it makes me want to punch a baby."

She chokes on her water. "Punch a baby?"

"I'm just kidding," I say, and she laughs.

I nudge her shoulder with mine. "What are _you_ doing here?"

She gestures to the plate of food. "Eating."

I don't know what it is about Jenna, but it's easy to talk to her. Comfortable. So after Seven's ... ah, fiery performance, I pretend it's her I'm talking to instead of Hanya.

"Boy am I glad to see you don't have any fire on your outfit," Hanya says by way of greeting as I slouch down on the couch. Whatever. Felicity can yell at me later. "Not that you don't look dashing, of course."

I'm wearing an orange vest over a plain white shirt and blue jeans, a casual outfit by Capitol standards, but I like it. "Thanks."

"The Capitol is a pretty big change from District Eight," she acknowledges. "What's your favorite thing thus far?"

Nothing. "Everything."

She raises a penciled-in eyebrow. "Even the calamari?"

I wouldn't eat that crap if they paid me. "Especially the calamari."

Hanya asks me stupid questions and I respond with flat-out lies— "are you excited to be in the Games?" "yes, very," "do you have a girl back home?" "maybe"—before the three minutes is up and I shuffle back to my seat.

Jenna smiles at me as I pass, and somehow, that makes me feel a lot better.

I smile back.

* * *

**Kimberly Hope Kerner POV (12) **

Koll has talked about nothing but my ten since last night. "A ten!" he'd exclaimed, eyes wider then saucers. "What in the world did you do to get a ten? Sleep with the Gamemakers?"

I buried my face in a pillow to hide the blush, and Jameson looked at Koll in shock. "Of course not!"

Really, my presentation had been simple. I'd dressed in black, slipped into the room without the Gamemakers noticing, and flitted behind large structures until I made it behind the desk the confused Gamemakers sat at.

"Where's Twelve?" a guy demanded, and I'd tapped him on the shoulder and timidly explained I'd been there all along.

I guess it was good enough to get a ten.

"Guess you showed me," Koll mutters, and I'll admit I have to struggle to keep my smile in check. "Now that you didn't get a crappy score, I have to think up a new angle."

As Koll leaves, mumbling under his breath, Serenya following behind him, I turn to Jameson. "What did he mean by new angle?"

"You know, an interview personality."

"I can't just go out as myself?"

Jameson tucks me under the chin, impersonating Koll. "Kimmie, you're as innocent as a newborn baby duckling."

I duck my head, and Jameson laughs beside me. "You know I'm just messin' with ya."

"I know," I say, but I can't stop the blood rushing to my cheeks.

—

Koll said my angle is to stay the same. Shy, scared, nervous. Let everyone underestimate me. Play off the ten like I have no clue how I got it. He also mention I should cry, which shouldn't be too hard.

I guess interviewing last is good, because we're fresh in the minds of the Capitol, but as I sit in the chair on the stage, under the glaring lights, nerves fester in my stomach. The only thing that keeps me from throwing up are James reassuring smiles— he's dressed the same as me, matching in a gray&black suit—and the fact that even I can't do worse then Aya from Seven.

As I sit down on the couch across from Hanya, my dress, made of muted grays and blacks, pools around my knees.

"You looked great at the Chariots," she flatters. "Almost translucent."

I remember what Koll said, and stare at the floor. It's not hard to act meek. "T-thanks."

"I know I wasn't the only one surprised with your score. A ten! That's one of the best scores from your District in over twenty years."

Wow. I'm pleased with myself, but say nothing, mumbling half-responses to her questions. Surely no one will view me as a threat when I'm acting like this, even with the ten.

It's only when she gets to talking about home do I break down. Truthfully I don't miss Twelve all that much. Too depressing. Too many memories. But when she asks if I have any siblings, tears well up in my eyes. I haven't thought about Shane in so long. Because it's what Koll wants I feel like crying anyways, I dissolve in sobs and spend the remaining two minutes crying into my hands.

* * *

**Roland Albrecht POV (10) **

Much to my mortification, Flarra took one look at me and decided my interview angle would be ... sexy. Yes, me. Sexy. I can't _do _sexy! I've never felt sexy before in my life. Even dressed in an button-down shirt unbuttoned so I might as well not be wearing a shirt at all, tight black pants, hair falling in my eyes, I feel awkward. I don't feel like Roland, I feel like a sexified Capitol puppet.

Ava giggle-blushed when she saw me. "You look different."

"Good different or bad different?"

She smiled. "Good different, of course. Have fun acting sexy!" Then she'd skipped off to talk to Flarra.

It doesn't matter how many times Porcena made me practice my smolder, I'll never feel sexy. Even the word makes me feel weird. Sexy. Ugh.

To try and take my mind off the impending doom, I focus on the other tributes interviews. Take notes. The girl from Five twirls in her dress, the guy sturdy and strong. Seven goes down in flames, literally. The girl from Eight doesn't talk at all, the guy giving half-answers and smirking the whole time. As far as I can tell, no one else decided to act sexy.

It's pointless, I think. I'm going to die anyways. Do I really want to compromise myself before I go? Still, a little piece of me doesn't _want _to die. Isn't yet resigned. So I wonder what the Capitol is putting in their food and try and strut to the couch when it's my turn to interview.

I wonder if maybe I did too well when Hanya stares at my chest when she talks to me. Oh, God. I feel so awkward.

I run a hand through my hair as she asks me if I have a girl back home, how I plan on winning, who designed my "delicious" outfit. I fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. I even try and smolder.

It's the longest three minutes of my life, and I can only hope my smolder doesn't come out looking like I was constipated while interviewing.

—

When I watch the recaps that night, it's almost worse to see how well I did.

"I'm sure a lot of girls liked your interview," Ava teases—or maybe she's being sincere, and Flarra pretends to swoon.

My ears burn. "I'm sure more boys liked yours." It's sufficient in getting her to shut up.

I leave for bed early.

—

In less then fifteen hours I'll be in the arena.

Time never went by so quickly.

* * *

**Dahlia Jaines POV (11) **

I know that, tomorrow, I'll be in the arena battling for my very survival, but I actually feel quite positive. I'm in an alliance with two wonderful boys, my training score wasn't _that _bad and, really, the Capitol food is enough to put anyone in a good mood.

Rose says she doesn't believe in acting like something you're not for the interviews. Since Ant is genuinely nice, he'll act nice. And since I'm genuinely positive, I'll act positive.

The nerves in my stomach mingle with anticipation, excitement. I've never been interviewed before, and in my shiny golden dress, long and close to my body, hair brushed down my back, I figure I may as well enjoy feeling clean while I can.

"Dahlia— the girl with the edible dress," Hanya introduces me to Panem. "Let's give it up for Dahlia!"

The crowd cheers, hoots, hollers. I wave back, overwhelmed.

"I've heard you've been enjoying the Capitol's fine food, if you know what I mean."

Oh no. "What do you mean?"

The 20x20 television screen behind us lights up, roaring to life, and I turn around just in time to see a compilation of pictures, of me. Me eating bread. Me slurping soup. Me chowing down on steak. Me looking around, furtive as I stuff my face with cake. Me, mouth open wide, chewed food visible. Me sharing chocolates with Roland. Me with pasta sauce on my face. Picture after picture flashes across the screen, all of me and food, and I have to wonder where they got all this footage.

The 30 second clip ends, and the Capitol crowd is crying with mirth. I'll admit, I'm mortified. They laugh, but the concept of easy access food is so foreign to me, I can't get enough of it. Don't they see how unhealthy it is? I suppose, being from the Capitol, they wouldn't.

It's pointless to cry. And it's not that bad, right? It's just me eating a lot of food. The other Districts will understand.

"I'm so jealous!" Hanya crows. "Look at all that food she just ate, audience, and then look at her figure! You're a _stick_. The last time I ate that much I had a food baby for so long people started asking if I was pregnant."

Move to District Eleven, I think. You'll lose pounds in no time. "The Capitol chefs really are talented," I say. "Let's give a shout out to them, am I right?"

So much time is wasted on the cheering crowd and video clip that I've only said two sentences before the timer buzzes, and my time is up.

—

During dinner, I stare at my plate of food stacked high and feel, for the first time in my life, for the first time since arriving at the Capitol, full.

* * *

By the way, I made the 24 characters & posted links to them on my profile, if you guys want to check it out. (:

Maya—angry  
Scene—arrogant  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless  
Seraphina—dreamer  
Weston—energetic  
Maren—upbeat  
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna—sweet  
Ezra—mature  
Katara—observant  
Toris—shy  
Ava—brash  
Triston—player  
Liesl—intelligent  
Crayne—mysterious  
Kaaya—scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava—adorable  
Roland—timid  
Dahlia—positive  
Ant—quiet  
Kimberly—withdrawn  
James—kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity**  
**


	19. Sponsoring

While the rules aren't complex, I figured sponsoring needed a chapter on it's own so that if anyone who didn't submit a tribute wanted to read it/sponsor, they could easily find the chapter where all that information is.

Alright, so:

**SPONSORING: **

Each time you review after I post this chapter, you get ten points. I'll keep track of the points, but it'd be nice if you did, too. If you review five times in a row, you get an extra 30 points. Ten times in a row? An extra 50.

Just what can you do with these points? Sponsor people, of course. You can sponsor anyone as long as they're alive.

SMALL ITEMS (TWENTY POINTS)  
- Small amounts of food, i.e. a roll of bread, a canteen of water, an apple.  
- Small tools, i.e. matches, string.  
- Small medicine, i.e. gauze, a tiny bottle of painkiller, band-aids.  
- Small weapons, i.e. a dull pocketknife.

MEDIUM ITEMS (FORTY POINTS)  
- Medium amounts of food, i.e. a pack of crackers, a big canteen of water, broth.  
- Medium tools, i.e. a dull hammer and nails, poncho, cheap gloves.  
- Medium medicine, i.e. sleep serum, a bigger bottle of painkiller, a sling.  
- Medium weapons, i.e. a sharper pocketknife, a small vial of poison, extra arrows.

LARGE ITEMS (SIXTY POINTS)  
- Large amounts of food, i.e. an entire load of bread, meat, three large canteens full of water.  
- Large tools, i.e. a tent, insulated sleeping bag, a float for the water, mountain-climbing shoes, a fishing pole.  
- Large medicine, i.e. morphling, infection-cure, an antidote for poison.  
- Large weapons, i.e. a machete, a bow and five arrows, a pickax.

Now, that's not ALL you can send. It's just the basis. For example, in small amounts of food, you can also send a pear, or banana. Stuff like that. Also, pay attention to the large tools. It gives a lot of hints as to what's in the arena.

Happy sponsoring!  
- Alactricity

P.S. The sponsoring points start ... now!


	20. Day One Part One, Let The Games Begin

A/N: Everyone who reviewed either chapter 18 or 19 got 10 sponsor points. And, to address a concern: You can sponsor _anyone_, as long as they're alive. Also, guys ... I chose the bloodbath tributes at random a few weeks ago, and I couldn't just change it now. If your character (or one you really liked) dies, I'm so sorry. But they'll be back as zombies! Please don't spork me?

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day One Part One, In Which The Games Begin **

* * *

**Ant Kamper POV (11)  
**

Rose is pissed when I tell her about my alliance. "You _what_?"

"I allied," I explain. "With Ava from Twelve."

"Didn't I say no allies?" She turns on Dahlia, who flinches slightly. "Am I speaking Chinese, or did I specifically say no allies?"

I cross my arms over my chest. I may not be all that sure of the decision myself, but I don't need Rose yelling at me or Dahlia for it. "You said it. I just ignored you."

It was the first time I've seen her actually angry; eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. "You just kissed your sponsors goodbye, smartass. Is your alliance worth it now?"

Yes. No. Maybe.

She must see the indecisiveness on my face, because her lips curl up in a sneer and she leaves the room.

"If it's any consolation," Dahlia says in a small voice. "I allied, too."

**—**

I went to bed around 5:59 this morning. The alarm went off at 6.

I don't know about the other tributes, but it's not myself I'm primarily worried about. It's my sisters, Holly and Rosemary. Ever since my parents died, I've been looking after them; making sure they get food, have a place to sleep, and yeah, I'm just a teen guy, but I like to make sure they have someone to talk to, too. If I die, who knows what could happen?

Methodically, I dress into the clothes left for me by an avox for this years Games: Light clothing, cotton, probably, with shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. I hope this doesn't mean the arena is a desert. Vegetation is all I know.

Rose sighs when she sees me stumble out of the room and into the elevator, hair disheveled and bags under my eyes. "I'm sorry for yesterday."

"Me too," I say. I don't want to go into the arena holding petty grudges.

"Just make it past the bloodbath, and I'll see what I can do about sponsors."

I nod, too exhausted to speak. Neither Dahlia nor I speak. It's too tense. In a few minutes, I could kill her. Worse, she could kill _me_.

**—**

My metal plate rises from the holding room, up, up, up, to the brightly lit arena. I have sixty seconds to scope out my surroundings, but my heart is in my throat, and my nerves are stretched so thin I'm worried they'll snap.

We're on an island with a moat of clear blue water around us; I can see a wooden bridge, and, past that, tall blades of grass, maybe fifteen feet high. I can barely make out the peak of a mountain far off.

Forty seconds.

Next to me are a few Careers who's name I don't care about; our metal plates make a circle around the Cornucopia. Ava and I decided we'd just run for it**—**I'm looking around for her, to catch her eye and signal to the wooden bridge**—**I want to get to the mountains**—**when someone shouts "Go!" and, without thinking, I step off the platform**—**

* * *

**Dahlia Jaines POV (11)  
**

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_

An explosion sounds from across the circle, and body parts go flying. I can't help it**—** I scream, loud and terrified. Oh, my God. Was that**—**was that _Ant_? Is that his head rolling across the sandy floor? I'm a few feet away, but I swear I see his eyes rove in their head, stare at me, blink.

I scream again.

Just this morning, just ten minutes ago, I saw him! He was alive and talking and the opposite of dead.

The gong sounds.

On pure adrenaline, I sprint towards the Cornucopia**—**tears are streaming down my face, why did the Capitol do this to me to him to everyone, _why_?**—**reach for a backpack**—**and all my breath escapes me in a whoosh. Something pierces the small of my back. Then my neck.

I collapse to the floor, unsure of what's going on. The sky is blue like home but the ground is grainy like our bread and I can feel the leaves of the tree next to my house between my fingers. People step over my bleeding body, and I curl around the wound, whimper in pain. I think someone is screaming my name.

My vision turns spotty, then black. I think I am dying. Something sticky pours down the loose clothing I wear. I'm so tired. Maybe if I just rest my eyes for a minute ...

* * *

**Ezra Samuels POV (5) **

People are dead and dying around me, but I can't spare them any empathy. I leap over the fallen girl from Eleven and run as hard and fast as I ever have in my entire life, run like I'm being chased by an axe murderer because I just might be.

Jenna, Crayne, Liesl and I planned it earlier**—** we'd all take off east, and scavenge for food once we met up. Well, Jenna, Crayne and I planned it. Liesl just sort of nodded or gave me appraising stares when she thought I wasn't looking, like, What? _You're_my ally? I don't know what to think of her, to be honest. How can I judge a girl I've never heard utter a single word?

Under the cover of palm trees and surrounded by prickly bushes, I double over, wheezing into my hand. The bushes rustle. Before I can react, who else but Liesl emerges from the bushes, completely unscathed. She nods at me.

"Glad you're alive too," I say in a whisper, really meaning it. An ally is an ally, after all.

I point upwards, towards the tall, leaning coconut trees. "Coconut milk. We can drink that."

"Crayne?" I hear a voice call, loud and oblivious. "Ezra? Liesl? Where are you guys?"

Jenna, of course. Liesl grinds her teeth in irritation, but we follow the sound of Jenna's voice through a sparse island terrain.

I decide to risk it. "Stay where you are!" I yell back. My voice doesn't echo, but if we heard her, it's more then likely she'll hear me. "We're coming!"

Liesl and I wander around the island, avoiding the places the trees thin out and open up into the beach, and, by affect, the Cornucopia, noting potential camp sites, food sources. Well, I do. Liesl just points and nods.

I'm about to give up and call her name again when we find Jenna, huddled under a tree, leafy palms providing shade. She looks fine**—** as well as anyone in the Hunger Games could be, anyways. She looks behind me, behind Liesl. "Where's Crayne?"

"We don't know."

"Nice to see you too," Liesl says, voice scathing, and we both turn to her, shocked. "Crayne isn't the the whole world, you know."

Jenna stands up. "So it speaks."

Liesl looks like she couldn't care less. "Unlike you, I prefer to save my breath for useful sentences rather then your method of speaking, babbling on like a mindless airhead."

Jenna cusses. "I'm going to go find Crayne. Ezra, let's go."

Even in an arena of death, girls still find a way to trap me in the middle of their arguments. Jenna glares at me. Liesl stares. It hurts to swallow. "Why don't you just stay here?" I suggest. "We can all go and look for him."

"No." Jenna storms off into the underbrush, and I sigh. Great. Not even twenty minutes into the Games, and already our alliance has been broken.

I turn to Liesl. She stares steadily back at me. I want to ask something scathing**—** maybe, "all out of words?"**—**but it wouldn't solve anything. "Let's go figure out how to climb a coconut tree," I say instead, and she nods.

* * *

**Katalina Witt POV (2) **

My new alliance is the biggest group of suckers I've ever seen. Why would I, an established Career, join a group of underfed, weak, lowlife losers who obviously need me more then I need them? Whatever. With Ava out of the alliance, my mission is one step closer to being accomplished.

Kimberly's so close she's practically on top of me as we run across the wooden bridge, Jameson and Kaaya lagging behind. No one else is on the bridge, but we run regardless. Personally, I feel fine. I'm in my element. Ironically enough, killing is what I live for.

"How much longer?" Kaaya wheezes, clutching her side. Now I know why she got a five.

Probably because I'm so much wiser, stronger, then all of them, despite being the youngest, I've been unofficially put in charge. "Let's keep running until we get into the swamp." I try to sound friendly, but it's hard**—**this girl is so wimpy I want to kill her right now and get it over with. Wouldn't want her to get too hopeful, after all.

"I don't think the swamp is a good idea," Jameson interjects. "We don't know what could be hiding in there."

We don't know**—**yes, we do! Animals, probably quicksand. Good God, has he never watched a Game before? "We have to go through the swamp to get to the forest."

It's true, we do. The arena is one giant circle. In the middle, the island and Cornucopia, a single bridge connecting the island and the swampy, fifteen feet blades of grass. Past that, forest. Even further, mountains. I figure, the forest will have food. It'll have trees to climb. Thick foliage. Most of all, I'm betting Ava will head to the forest, too. She's much too wimpy to stay on the island or in the swamp. 

I don't share my thoughts with the group though, and no one talks until we stop, directly in front of the grass. Despite myself, I feel a chill. It's definitely a creepy place.

"Alright, let's go."

Kaaya clings to my arm as we step into the unknown. Our boots sink into the mud, release with a sucking sound. I resist the urge to shake her off my arm.

Jameson and Kimberly try and keep up a conversation, probably to distract from the fact eerie fog has settled around the ground, over our feet. A black bird squawks, and we all jump. Kaaya opens her mouth, no doubt to say something stupid and wimpy, but I shush her. Birds don't just lift off into the sky for no reason.

"Do you hear that?" Jameson mouths. I nod. I can hear it all right**—**talking from up ahead.

Kimberly catches on quickly. "Let's stay behind until they leave," she suggests, and even though my initial instinct is to rush ahead to surprise attack them from behind, I nod, like, sure, that isn't the worst plan I've ever heard in my entire life.

I'm not with the Careers anymore, after all.

We've stopped, looking over our shoulder at every sound. And then**—**a scream. A splash. Tromping footsteps hurrying in our direction. The _suuuuuck _of the swamp mud is closer then I anticipated. No point in secrecy now. "Run!"

I swerve to the left and use long strides to try and get ahead, but it's working too well and I can see the others fall behind. Damn. Ava better be in the forest, or my whole plan will be shot to hell.

"Katalina, wait!" Jameson calls. Pathetic, I think, turning around, coming face to face with the equally startled looking tributes from Three. They shove past me.

"Who the hell do you think you are!" I holler, gearing up to take off after them, but I'm not looking behind me and am bowled over by the girl from Seven. My knees sink into the ground. What in the world are they running from?

Something wraps about my legs, and I tense. Shit shit shit, no. No!

I can hear Jameson and Kimberly and even Kaaya running towards me, but I can't see them, they're too far, too slow, and the crocodile is opening it's jaw and I grope for a stick to jab it with**—**

* * *

**Scene Decker POV (1)**

"Hah!" Maya taunts as we sprint towards the Cornucopia. "The Games began two seconds ago and I already killed someone!"

"An idiot from Eleven doesn't count," I protest**—**seriously, anyone can kill those wieners**—**but she just laughs.

Reaching the Cornucopia, I grab a bundle of knives tied together with twine and aim for the nearest person, getting them once, twice. I don't even know who it is, but the girl falls, dead. A cannon booms.

"One kill for each of us," I gloat, and Maya rolls her eyes, picks up a slingshot and aims for the guy from Eight's eye. But he's running too fast, and she misses, getting him in the side of the ear. I can hear his grunt of pain over the ruckus as he disappears into the forest.

"Great hit," I compliment with mock-sincerity. Maya flicks me off.

Skippy strolls over to us, lithely dodging a poorly thrown javelin, fishnet wrapped around his wrist, Maren following behind. "Maya, what the hell!" She holds up an arm covered in blood, guts, and male bits. "Why is it that people are always getting their innards on me?"

"Not my fault Eleven couldn't keep it in his pants." Then she laughs hysterically, even though it isn't funny. Well, maybe a little bit. I chuckle, too.

Maren's face is green. "GET IF OFF!"

"Do it yourself, Miss Priss."

"_I'm not touching that!_" Maren screams, and Skippy points to a sneaking tribute on the opposite side of the Cornucopia Maya and Maren haven't yet noticed. I recognize her. It's the girl we offered to join our Career pack but turned us down.

Skippy recognizes her, too.

Still smarting from the rejection, I whip out my knife**—**I only have two left, now. I'll have to collect the others from the dead girl before the Capitol beams them up if they haven't already done that yet**—**and hurl it with all my might, right for her face.

In the span of two seconds, she looks up, dives to the side, reaches for the nearest weapon**—**a gray backpack**—**and unzips it. A cannon goes off. I throw another knife, this time at her chest, and she nose-dives to the floor, dropping the pack, hissing in pain when her elbow catches the end of a glinting sword. Crap, a sword.

She grabs it, scrambles off the floor. I'm all out of knives and bullrush forward, using my weight to throw her against the sandy beach floor. Using the twine that kept the knives together, I wrap the material around her throat and pull, pull, _pull_. Her eyes bulge. Her skin turns blue. With one hand, she claws at the twine, at her neck. With the other, she plunges the sword into my side so deep that it comes clean out the other side.

A scream sticks in my throat, but I'm not too worried. There's no way this is real life. No way I was just killed by a worthless piece of crap from Six, of all places. No way the blood gushing out of my body really smells that bitter. Probably this is just a nightmare, and I'll wake up and the real Games will actually begin**—**

I hold onto the twine even as blood loss makes me lose my balance and I tip over to the side, off of Six's stomach. Another cannon sounds but it swells in intensity and volume until it sounds like a scream. I close my eyes and see Maya's face behind the lids.

* * *

**Ava Weese POV (10) **

The Games have just begun and already I wish for them to be over. Ant is dead, my old alliance is gone, disappeared, and I'm all alone. I don't know what to do, where to go.

Ant is dead.

The gong rings for real this time, and because it's close and no one else seems to be headed this way, I sprint down the beach, kicking up sand as I go. Tears leak out of my eyes and into my mouth and I don't wipe them away because I don't want them to die too and I run with a steady beat of _Ant's dead Ant's dead I'm all alone I'm all alone I want to go home I want to go home_.

* * *

Dead tributes are taken out of the list below. Sponsor points are still in play.

Maya**—**angry  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Toris**—**shy  
Ava**—**brash  
Triston**—**player  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Kimberly**—**withdrawn  
James**—**kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	21. Day One Part Two, Running With Scissors

Disclaimer: Still not Suzanne Collins.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day One Part Two, In Which We Learn Not To Run With Scissors  
**

* * *

**Roland Albrecht POV (10)**

With Dahlia gone so early in the Game, the alliance is crumbling. Toris and I have shared less then three words total since we met; Dahlia was always the one to provide conversation.

"We should have helped her," Toris mutters, bitter as we trudge through the island forest. It's not dense, but we're tense anyways.

"I know," I say.

I was behind Dahlia when she was knifed, close enough to pull them out, or get hit by mistake. Instead, I took off into the trees and didn't look back until the gore of the bloodbath was far behind me and Toris was struggling to keep up. Blinded by adrenaline, I hadn't thought about what I was doing until her cannon had already gone off, until she was dead.

Not even ten minutes into the Game, and already I've changed, not for the better.

The worst part? If I had to go back and do it again, I would probably do the same thing. Except this time I'd pick up the backpack.

"We should probably find water," Toris says after a while of walking**—**two more cannons have gone off.

"Yeah," I agree. "But where? The Careers will be by the beach."

Toris scratches his elbow. "We'll just g-go to the opposite shore, away from the Cornucopia."

"Alright," I say dubiously. "Lead the way."

**—**

The sun is high in the sky by the time the trees begin to thin out, and the both of us just stand there, neither wanting to leave the shelter of trees but loathing to admit it.

"G-guess we s-should go," Toris says.

"Probably."

We stand there. A bird chirps. A false breeze tickles the back of my neck.

"Screw this," I mutter. "I'm going." I push past the trees, stick my head out, look around, take a step forward**—**and see the Career from Two.

Oh shit. I backtrack so quickly I fall into the forest, landing on a bush. I don't wait to see if he's noticed me, I just take off running, checking behind me once to see if Toris is following**—**he is**—**and I run until I'm certain Two isn't following.

"W-what was that?" Toris pants when we stop. "What happened?"

"I saw a Career," I say. "No Cornucopia. No one else. Just one Career."

Toris's expression is uncharacteristically grim. "You don't think they're g-guarding the e-entire beach, do you?"

"Why would they do that?"

"They know we're in h-here," he reasons. "They're **—** they m-must be **—** it's a-a-a **—**"

"Yes?"

Toris whispers, "A siege."

* * *

**Ava Jensan POV (7) **

We ditched Triston.

"I told him where to find us," I lied to the Three's. "He's going to stay behind and get some weapons."

I don't think Weston believed me. Oh well. Who cares. Not me, that's who.

"Keep up, guys," Weston calls as we slog through the swamp, at least ten feet ahead of Seraphina and I. "At this rate we'll never get out of here."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap.

Seraphina puts a hand on my arm. "He's just playing around."

I shake her hand off, scoff. "Playing around? I know the name is deceiving, but this isn't a freaking game."

"Isn't it, though?"

To be honest, Seraphina creeps me out. She's always so cryptic. I don't know if everyone is home, if you know what I mean.

It comes out of no where**—**one minute I'm pulling my foot out of the mud, the next, I'm stepping on a sleeping crocodiles head. It blinks one sleepy eye at me.

I clutch the flashlight I found in the Cornucopia before we left and swing it wildly. "I'm going to try and kill it!"

"Aya, no!" Seraphina shrieks as she and Weston take off in the opposite direction. "Leave it alone!"

"Wussies!" I clonk the crocodile on the head with the flashlight, expecting it to, I don't know, maybe pass out, but instead it opens its jaw and bites the hell out of my foot.

I gasp in pain and surprise, shake my leg, try to get the crocodile to release its grip. Instead, its teeth sink past my flesh, into the bone, and I scream, high-pitched and most unlike me. I'm past the point of dignity. It hurts, oh my God, it _hurts**—** _

In desperation, fueled by adrenaline, I jab my fingers into the crocodile's eye sockets. It lets go of my foot, and I can barely stomach looking at it**—**it's soaked in blood, and I think I'm missing a toe**—**before I scramble backwards, leaving the flashlight on the floor. Each step is pure agony but the crocodile is following close behind so I have to run, _have _to**—**

I push my way past another tribute**—**where'd she come from?**—**and feel selfishly glad when I hear _her _scream of pain and terror, _her _foot being mangled, maybe worse. It means I'm no longer lunch.

I manage to catch up to Seraphina and Weston, who stopped about a mile away to wait for me, before collapsing to the floor in exhaustion. I don't even want to _think_ about what I just did to my foot.

"I'm sorry, Aya, I'm sorry," Seraphina hovers over me. "I don't have anything to bandage the foot with." She turns to Weston. "What do I do, what do I _do_?"

"Well, foot surgery is out of the question," Weston jokes, and Seraphina breathes through her nose. I would snap at him, but I'm dizzy, tired. I hope it's not from blood loss.

"Not now, please," Seraphina says, voice calm but looking stressed. "Just**—**can you rip some of your shirt?"

Weston winks. "I didn't know you liked me like that, baby."

"Weston, please, for the love of God, _shut up and help me._"

Wordlessly, Weston rips about three inches from the bottom of his shirt and hands it to Seraphina, looking sufficiently cowed. I wish he would look like that when I tell him to shut up.

"Thank you."

Seraphina wraps the cloth around my foot, whispers soothing words I take no comfort in. "It's not deadly, you haven't lost too much blood, we can**—**we can go back and find your toe, if you want." Her voice catches on the word toe. "Triston is probably bringing medicine from the Cornucopia as we speak."

If only.

* * *

**Triston Enki POV (7)**

They ditched me.

One minute, I'm gathering supplies for us to use later in the Game, the next, I look up and they're gone. No doubt Aya put them up to it, that bitch.

But the jokes on her, because I saw them running across the bridge into the swamp.

**—**

Armed with a spear and a thirst for justice, I set off at a brisk jog across the rickety bridge before anyone else can. Hopefully, I can catch up to my ex-alliance during the night and kill Aya in her sleep, so she doesn't even know what's going on. I can play dirty too, Aya.

When I enter the swamp, it's eerily quiet. No birds. No animals. No other people. Hmm. Suspicious.

Checking over my shoulder every few seconds, I almost don't see the flash of clothing from in front of me. The scream, however, is harder to miss. I come to a screeching halt, try to decipher where the scream came from. On both sides of me are gnarled trees, thick stalks of grass shooting in to the sky like the buildings in the Capitol. I can only see ahead, and behind. I take a gamble and turn right, shove my way past prickly bushes, peek through.

Yes! I do a silent cheer, feel the weight of the spear in my hand. It's Aya. And she's asleep. It's almost too easy.

Sitting in the mud next to her, I see Seraphina and Weston, both silent. I wonder, should I kill them to?

I don't have a lot of time to think about, because Seraphina looks up from drawing in the mud and sees my head, poking out from between blades of grass. "Triston, thank God you're here."

So Aya lied to them then. I knew it.

"Yeah," I push past the grass, the trees, act like I'm not about to commit murder. "What happened to Aya?"

"A freaking crocodile, that's what," Weston interjects. He peers curiously at the bag slung over my shoulder, at the spear in my hand. "What'd you get?"

I take a step closer to the conked out Aya. "Oh, you know. A weapon. Some food. A thirst for revenge." Before either of them can react, I stab the sleeping Aya in the chest with my spear, right through the heart.

A cannon booms almost instantly. Seraphina covers her mouth with both hands and screams. Weston swears.

I'm not planning on killing them, but they both start running in the opposite direction. "Seraphina, wait up!" I holler, holding the bloodied spear by it's bladed tip. "I don't want to hurt you guys!"

I take off running after them, but I forgot about the dead girl by my feet and trip, the spear impaling itself in my forehead**—**

Karma is a bitch.

* * *

**Kimberly Kerner POV (12) **

By the time we catch up to Katalina, she's panting with exhaustion. "Had to outrun a crocodile," she explains through breaths. "Do you know how bloody fast those things move?"

I shake my head no.

"You're bleeding." Jameson points to her ankle, which is bleeding, steady, drip drip drip.

"No shit," Katalina says. "What am I supposed to do about that? Magically fix it?"

Jameson shrugs, because she's right.

"Anyways, let's just get out of here," Katalina pushes hair out of her face, looks at all of us. "This swamp sucks."

**—**

By the time we make it out of the swamp, we're covered in bug bites and the sun is low in the sky. "Finally," I say, relief evident. "I was beginning to think we'd never get out of there."

Sharing in my exuberance, Jameson gives me a high-five. "Now we just need to find food and water."

Almost without realizing it, the three of us turn to Katalina, who looks skyward and huffs. "What am I, your mom?"

I don't know if it's my imagination, but Katalina is certainly different then I thought she would be. Meaner, somehow.

We stand in silence. "Alright guys," I say eventually, trying on the role of decision-maker and hoping it's not too big. "Let's go see what we can find in the forest."

Even though anyone could have said that, I'm the one who has to, and I'm the first one to walk into the forest. Inside, despite the trees that shoot up into the stratosphere and should, logically, block out most of the sun, the forest is lit up, beautiful. Swollen fruit glistening with flavor hang from trees, bushes ripe with bursting red berries, the ground a soft, lush green, like candy. This isn't a forest. It's paradise.

Besides me, Kaaya squeals in delight. "Food!"

"Are you _crazy_?" Katalina demands. "That's probably all poisoned!"

Jameson nods in agreement. "Anything the Capitol makes this pretty has to be deadly."

"You two are so paranoid," Kaaya huffs, reaching for a fruit, plucking it from the branch. This is _food_, not arsenic."

Katalina shrugs, looks around. "Your funeral."

"Kaaya, wait, no**—** " Jameson blurts, but Kaaya bites into the fruit anyways. Juice dribbles down her chin as she chews.

"Wow, this is good stuff."

The three of us stare at her like we're waiting for her to drop dead, but Kaaya just takes another bite of the fruit.

"She's not dead?" Katalina mutters in surprise. "Huh. I could have sworn**—**"

Katalina stops talking, because, descending down from the tall trees, bark extra brown, leaves extra green, is a pack of monkeys. And every single one of them is looking directly at Kaaya.

* * *

**Drampton Kramptus POV (2)**

I am impatient to kill. At the bloodbath, everyone but the other "Careers" raced away from the Cornucopia without giving it a second look. Into the woods. Over the bridge. Gone gone gone.

"Let's go head hunting," I say once everyone settles down. Skippy is lounging against a tree, Maren stretching her back, Maya, looking oddly lost without someone to argue with. It's the most pathetic group of Careers I've ever seen.

The bodies of the dead have been beamed up, so I can't even practice my carving out on them.

"Head hunting?" Maya scoffs. "Who calls it head hunting?"

"I'm not going to fill in for your idiot boyfriend," I interrupt. It was so obvious she loved to fight with him. "So shut up."

"Ex-boyfriend, actually," Maya corrects, balling her hands into fists. "And don't tell me what to do."

Such a stupid girl. Not even worth it.

"I've been thinking," Maren interrupts. "I saw a lot of people run into these here woods. We should patrol."

"Patrol?"

Maren tosses an apple in the air, catches it, takes a bite. "Yeah. Like, each one of us should spread out around the beach so, when the losers inside come out, we can kill 'em."

I don't like it. It's too passive aggressive for me. But everyone else agrees, so I'm handed a sack full of food, a weapon, and sent off in another direction.

**—**

Unless you count a wiener poking his head out of the woods and practically pissing himself with fear when he saw me, nothing exciting has happened. No kills. My fingers twitch with anticipation. I think of what I can do. Maybe carve my name on their face? Pull out their eyeballs and make them eat it? No, cannibalism is illegal now. Darn.

If only it were tomorrow already. The Capitol said every morning, the people who died would be beamed back into the arena as zombies.

Every morning. It's the afternoon. Damn.

* * *

Dead tributes are taken from the list below. Sponsor points are still in play. And these people seem to need the help. ;D

Maya**—**angry  
Katalina**—**independent  
Drampton**—**ruthless  
Seraphina**—**dreamer  
Weston**—**energetic  
Maren**—**upbeat  
Skippy**—**lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna**—**sweet  
Ezra**—**mature  
Toris**—**shy  
Liesl**—**intelligent  
Crayne**—**mysterious  
Kaaya**—**scared  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava**—**adorable  
Roland**—**timid  
Kimberly**—**withdrawn  
James**—**kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	22. Day One Part Three, Monkboon Rituals

A/N: There won't usually be so many deaths in one day, but it's the first day. I gotta distinguish the boys from the men. ;D

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games will always belong to Suzanne Collins. (Unless she wants to share?)

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day One Part Three, Monkboon Rituals  
**

* * *

**Steve Renbar POV (10)**

I don't know what it is about me: maybe it's the average looks, the quiet voice. Maybe it's just something people are born with. Whatever the case, I've got "forget me" written on my forehead in huge permanent letters.

A blessing in disguise, I'm certain the only tribute who remembers me is my District partner. The downside? Sponsors won't remember me, either.

But I have a plan.

I figure, if I can steal enough food from the Cornucopia and find somewhere safe to sit the next few days out, then maybe ... maybe I won't die after all.

—

When the gong rings, I jog backwards into the trees. Close enough to see the Cornucopia but hidden behind a thick coconut tree, stem arching sideways. I have to stand awkwardly to hide myself behind the trunk, but, when no Careers come charging after me, I know a little pain is better than a spear through my gut, a knife through my heart.

After an hour passes, I repeat that in my head to ignore the aching in my shoulders: gain over pain, gain over pain, gain over pain. I spend hour two versing myself in tic-tac-toe. I win every time. During hour three I get so mind-numbingly bored I fall asleep, head drooping on chest. Four hours later and my main source of entertainment is naming the ants that crawl over my sneaker. You'd think the Hunger Games is all thrill, heart-stopping action and murder around every corner. In reality? There's a lot of sitting around doing nothing.

By hour five, I'm ready to shoot myself and be done with it.

And then—"Let's start patrolling," a Career says, sounding as bored as I feel. "Around the beach."

There's mumbled agreements, the sound of Careers bickering over who gets what, and then, silence.

I hold my breath. Listen closely. Peek my head, slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, out from behind the tree, take a look around. The only Career left to guard the Cornucopia is a surly-looking male from Four. Obviously someone wasn't pleased with having to guard the food.

My stomach growls. The sun bleeds red, low in the sky. And I still have no plan. What can I do? Four outmatches me in strength, resources, probably speed. He's surrounded by glinting weapons and crates of apples. The only weapon I have is the ferocious ant running circles on my finger.

Why can't they go off in a pack, picking off tributes one by one like Careers usually do? I'll tell you, I don't like this "patrolling" business. Makes it that much more difficult for a hungry tribute to steal some goodies.

After a rough estimate, I figure the nearest sack of food is about twenty feet from my spot behind the tree. Four is looking in the opposite direction, into the water, the outline of grass a blur in the heat of the sunset.

I'm going to do it—just tip-toe out from behind this tree, grab the sack, and then tip-toe back. I doubt I'll make it. Still, I want to go down trying. Maybe because of my morbid thoughts, maybe because of the simmering heat, sweat trickles down my neck, following the curve of my spine down my back.

_Alright_, I think to myself._ Here goes everything._

—

One foot in front of the other. Each crunch of sand beneath my shoe, each bird call from the trees, each bored sigh from Four, causes my heart to palpitate. Thumpthumpthump against my chest, sending blood to my arms, legs, fingers, toes.

Another step.

Thumpthumpthump.

Two more steps.

Thumpthumpthump.

The bag is within grabbing distance. I lean forward, breath held, palms sweating, and reach for the food.

Then—without any apparent reason, Four turns around.

ThumpthumpTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

I curl my fingers around the rope handle of the bag and start running back into the trees.

"HEY!" I hear Four yell. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing—" There's the sound of metal scraping against other metal, and then grains of sand crunching under the pressure of a teenage guys weight.

I pump my legs, arms tucked, head down. But it's not fast enough, I can hear Four crashing through the trees behind me, hollering bloody murder, like I'm the one chasing him.

What do I do where do I go where can I hide—

I can drop the food. Just toss the bag behind me and hope he leaves me alone. But I can't just go without food.

My internal monologue is disrupted when I'm tackled from behind, Four's weight catching me off-guard, and I skid face-first into the branchy ground. I'm hungry, but not hungry enough to swallow the mouthful of dirt.

"Shouldn't have messed with the Careers," Four tuts. "Sorry for what I'm about to do." And the worst part is—he does actually look a little regretful, a little queasy.

The wicked tip of the knife catches the last of the suns rays, glinting, shining, anticipating. The bag of food—so useless now, what do the dead need food for?—rolls out of my unclenched hand. Four raises the knife with one hand, his knees pressing into my chest, but I still have a hand free and wrap my wrist around his knife-arm.

In a battle of strengths, he struggles to press the knife into my chest, and I struggle to keep that blade the hell away from me. I grunt with exertion, sweat rolling like fat tears down my cheeks, and shove his arm away from me with strength only the desperate could have.

The knife skids a few feet away. I don't even look at Four—we just dive for the knife, but I reach it first and wrap my fingers around the cool blade, stab the first thing I can find.

Four howls with pain and scrambles backwards, thigh gushing blood. Admitting defeat he limps back into the trees, back to the beach, and I let him go because he got me, too. A thin but painful slash across my stomach makes any movement painful.

The worst part? The food is out of reach.

* * *

**Kaaya Zeher POV (9)**

The only sound is heavy breathing coming from the monkboons. Faces red with fruit juice, body brown, they stand taller than every single one of us.

"Drop the fruit," Jameson hisses, but not a single one of the monkeys turn to face him.

Terrified, I drop the fruit, and it rolls out of my hands and onto the floor, stopping a few feet in front of the monkboons. One crouches down to pick it up, sniffs it, screeches, chucks it deep into the forest. Like some kind of a cue, the rest of the monkboons begin wailing, loud and high-pitched. Jameson, Katalina and Kimberly all cover their ears with their hands to block out the sound, but all I can do is burst into wet, sobbing tears.

"I gave you the fruit!" I plead. "Please, I'm sorry! Don't kill me!"

The screeching only grows in intensity, and the monkboons begin to circle me, all ten of them. I can't see out of the circle and try jumping, to catch a glimpse of Katalina—she can help me, surely she'll help me?—but all I see is monkboon fur. I'm so close the red on their muzzles looks like blood.

OH MY GOD IT _IS _BLOOD!

I scream, turn around, try to muscle my way out of the circle. But the nearest monkboon opens its mouth and reveals the kind of pointed, sharp teeth you just can't find on a weapon. I drop to my knees, past dignity. "HELP!" I try and call, but the sound is blocked out by the wailing, screaming, screeching. My ears feel like they're bleeding—help, _please_, someone, help!

The last thing I see is a monkboon, eyes small and beady black, staring at my stomach. Pain erupts in my lower abdomen and I scream in tune with the monkboons, the sound able to curdle milk. The pain is everywhere and my legs are sticky with blood.

Everything fades to black.

* * *

**Ava Weese POV (10) **

The first day isn't even over and already I'm lonely. The unfamiliar ache of human companionship reverberates in my stomach, and I wish, not for the first time, that Ant was still alive and well. I can picture him now, walking beside me, thinking up strategy's, of places we could stay. Maybe, over time and a few close calls with death, we could have bonded. He could have been like a big brother. But it's hard to write a pretend story when I already know the ending to the real one.

"We'll just walk for a little longer," I say to the nonexistent Ant. "Maybe we can find some nice palm fronds to sleep on."

My stomach growls, my legs ache, sweat beads on my forehead. I'm exhausted and it's only sunset.

I move closer to the trees, picking up a few fallen fronds and dragging them over to a nice spot on the beach. One for me, one for Ant.

Stretched out on the sand, make-shift blanket rough against my skin, I watch the sunset. I know it's a genetically engineered sun, but the colors look so vivid...

—

I wake up underwater. My eyes shoot open, and, without thinking, I suck in a breath of air. Water burns in the back of my throat. Desperate for air, I look around, hair a floating halo on my head. Black, black, and more black. With no clue which direction to go in, I panic, opening my mouth to scream, and a few bubbles drift up, up, up.

I try and follow them, but the water is churning, and I'm not exactly a great swimmer. Seaweed wraps around my ankle as I try and propel myself upwards. With shaking fingers I grope in the blindness to untangle them, but the current is so strong it rips the seaweed clean off the bottom of the ocean, and I'm sent tumbling sideways.

Air, I need air! But I'm slammed against a wall, probably the single wall that separates the swamp from the water. My back is screaming, but this is good—I cling to the rocky sides and swim upwards towards the surface.

When I finally get my head above the water, I have time for one greedy, sucking breath before I'm pulled back under. This is _impossible_! I'm small, my body makes no dent whatsoever in the current. Without my consent, I'm tossed under, slammed into rocks, and, when I'm really lucky, allowed a few seconds air before the process repeats itself. But I don't know how much more of this I can take.

I'm spit out of the churning waters onto sand—which there's less of, the tide must have come in when I was asleep—when I least expect it, and I drop to my knees, vomit water. Everywhere aches. My eyes burn. Small scrapes litter my arms, my legs, probably my face.

I think I may be crying, but it's hard to tell when every inch of my body is soaked.

* * *

**Jenna Leigh Bell POV (5) **

After leaving Ezra and Liesl, I realize I have no way of knowing if Crayne is even alive.

Don't be silly, I tell myself. I would _know _if he died. Wouldn't I?

My confidence lessens with each passing hour I don't find Crayne.

—

Like my knight in shining armor, Crayne is the one who finds me. I'm sprawled out on the island floor, giving my legs a break, when I hear: "Psst, Jenna!"

Startled, I look around. But unless trees are able to talk, there's nothing.

Frowning, I lay back against the tree trunk, tense. I can't be going crazy already, right?

"Jenna, look up!"

I look up— and there's Crayne, lounging in the crook of a tree like it's no big deal, like he does that every day.

"Crayne!" I squeal. "You made it!"

A corner of his mouth twitches. "Sure did."

I rub a hand on the smooth bark of the tree. "How'd you get up there?"

"My superb climbing skills, of course."

Giggling, I point to the vine in his hand. "Or you used that."

Crayne pretends to look upset. "Well I might as well help you up now," he says, threading the end of the vine down the tree so I can grab onto it.

It's kind of what I imagine mountain-climbing to be like, only scarier because if I fall there's nothing but hard ground to greet me. Holding onto the vine tight, I pull myself upwards, huffing with exhaustion. I'm a good climber, but this is ridiculous.

"There's no where to sit," I realize when I get up to the top of the tree. "And— oh my gosh, are you bleeding?" Now that I'm inches away from him instead of ten feet below, I can see blood steadily dripping out of his left earlobe.

"S'no big deal," he says with a half-smile. "And here, you can take my seat. I'll stand."

I blush, secretly pleased when he uses the vine to support his weight as he finds a comfortable place to put his feet.

"Where's Ezra and Liesl?" he asks, like it just now occurred to him.

"They left," I explain. "They didn't want to help find you."

Crayne frowns. "Really? Huh."

"Guess all alliances just can't survive the Games," I say, pretending to be sad, but really I couldn't be more thrilled. Who needs Liesl stinkin' up the place anyways?

We lapse into silence, but it isn't awkward. "What happened to your ear?" I probe, pressing gently against the lobe.

He winces. "Got hit in the ear with something."

"Can you hear?"

Crayne stares at me, and I blush. "Oh, right. Don't answer that."

He chuckles, deep and throaty, and a flower of _something _unfurls in my stomach, pink and tentative and completely out of place in this forest.

* * *

Dead tributes are taken out of the list below. Sponsor points are still in play. And guys, not to guilt trip you, but I lost a few hours of much-needed sleep to get this up today. So ... yeah. =P

Maya—angry  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless  
Seraphina—dreamer  
Weston—energetic  
Maren—upbeat  
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna—sweet  
Ezra—mature  
Toris—shy  
Liesl—intelligent  
Crayne—mysterious  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava—adorable  
Roland—timid  
Kimberly—withdrawn  
James—kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	23. Day Two Part One, Attack of the Zombies

A/N: 200 reviews._ 200 reviews_! Why are you guys so awesome?

Disclaimer: Still just a teenage girl.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day Two Part One, Attack of the Zombies**

* * *

**Weston Blackwood POV (3) **

"Did we ally with some crazy people or what," I say hours later. I'm still in shock over the Triston/Aya smack-down. Or, more appropriately, the Triston-Murders-Aya-In-Cold-Blood-And-Then-Gets-His-Commupets-Smack-Down.

Seraphina says nothing, tucking a lock of curly brown hair behind her ear.

"I knew they disliked each other, but damn. On the first day, too. I'm going to miss their constant squabbling. Still, better them than us, am I right?"

"I wish I had a hair scrunchie," Seraphina interrupts. She does this a lot—drifts along in her own little world and then says the most random of things. "The back of my neck is covered in sweat."

But I don't have any trouble keeping up with her conversation. "The perks of being a dude with short hair? No need for hair scunchies."

Seraphina _mmm_s in agreement.

—

"We should stop for the night," Seraphina suggests after hours of aimless wandering. "If we can't find our way out of this place during the day, I doubt we'll be able to when it's pitch black out."

"Wow." I look around, squint through nighttime darkness. "When did _that _happen?"

"The transition between day and night? Probably around seven."

I laugh, but she's serious. "Right. Well, where should we hit the hay?"

"Here is as good a place as any."

"Of course," I enthuse. "Who _wouldn't _want to sleep in the middle of a swamp?"

"You don't know it's the middle of the swamp," Seraphina points out. "But we can keep walking if you like."

"And anger more crocodiles? No thank you."

Without hesitation, Seraphina lies out on the mud. "I'll take first watch."

"No way," I protest. "_I'll _take first watch."

"I don't know ... are you sure?"

I make a face. "Of course I'm sure." Seeing the look on her face, I reassure, "I'll wake you up in a bit. No biggie."

Seraphina rolls over, squishes a handful of mud between her fingers. "Alright. Goodnight, Weston."

"Night," I say.

—

Despite what I said to Seraphina, I don't wake her up. I'm not tired and doubt I could fall asleep if I tried. In fact, it's the opposite—I've never felt so alive, like liquid caffeine is buzzing through my veins. I stand up, pace, ignore the rumbling in my stomach. Sometime in the night a small parachute drifts down from the sky and I catch it, licking my lips in anticipation, only to reveal a packet of matches. I can't help but feel crazily disappointed—matches aren't edible.

I stay up until the sun peaks over the horizon and the anthem plays, like my alarm clock back home.

Seraphina bolts upright. "What was that?" Her voice is thick with sleep.

"Just the anthem," I ease. "Nice to see you're up though."

She rubs her eyes, blinks in the morning light. "It's morning?"

"Yup. And look, someone sent matches."

"Why didn't you wake me?" she demands, ignoring me, sounding more indignant then I've ever heard her. "You said you'd wake me!"

I hold up my hands, like, Don't Shoot. "I wasn't tired."

"That's a lie and I don't believe you," she says frankly, standing up and stretching her back. Dried mud clings to the white clothes. "But let's go. We have a long day ahead of us. Those matches are going to come in handy."

* * *

**Maya Jook POV (1) **

After a dreadfully dull first day, the second day starts off with a bang.

I'm asleep on the beach—my patrol area, _great _idea Maren, it's not like anyone could just attack me in the night or anything, please note the sarcasm—when I hear it. A heavy breathing on my face. I wake up instantly and, on pure reflex, stab upwards with the rondel dagger in my hand.

It connects with hard flesh, but the person doesn't even whimper in pain. That's when I really wake up and see it—a zombie. It's Scene of all people, and I falter slightly. He looks like hell. A red stain in the middle of his stomach, skin graying and covered in dried blood, clothes ripped, hair gone. The eyes look in two different directions. I have a well-trained stomach, but even I have to admit this is just gruesome.

I attack again, plunging the rondel into it's stomach. Scene— sorry, the _zombie_ doesn't even flinch, instead choosing to grab my arm with brittle fingers and take a nice big chunk out of my skin.

Screaming in pain, I snatch my arm out of its surprisingly strong grip. About two inches of the skin on my forearm is gone, probably being swallowed by the zombie now. Fueled by an intense anger and a throbbing pain, I forget the rondel and duck low, kick at the zombies legs. It goes down and I pounce, straddling the stomach and beating my fists into its chest.

But I'm not making any progress. The zombie looks more annoyed then anything.

Damn it. Why couldn't the Capitol give us more information on how to kill these beasts?

I try stabbing it in the chest, the face, the arms, the stomach. Dark red blood seeps out, slow and thick, but the zombie doesn't appear to notice or care. Great.

Think Maya, _think_. I struggle to keep it down, keep any limbs away from it's mouth. Evidently zombies can't feel pain, nor can they be reasoned with. Absently I wrap my hand around its neck to try and cut off circulation, but despite the steady rise and fall of its chest, it doesn't seem to need to breath.

Already I'm tiring. Crap, I don't want to kill someone who's already dead, someone who can't feel pain. Where's the fun in that, the triumph? In one swift move, I leap off the zombie and sprint in the opposite direction. Someone else can deal with it for all I care.

But the zombie follows me, surprisingly fast, and I have to pump my arms faster to stay away. Breathing even but slightly labored, I turn a sharp corner into another section of the beach, hoping to run into one of the other Careers, and instead—

I collide face-first into another zombie.

* * *

**Toris Louro POV (6)**

With literally nothing better to do, Roland and I rest underneath a tree, lounging in the shade.

"I'm so h-hungry I could eat an entire cow," I say.

"Yeah, well, I'm so hungry I could eat an entire box of chocolates."

"I'm so hungry I could eat food out of the d-dumpster."

"I'm so hungry I could eat raw fish."

"I'm so hungry I could eat _y-you_."

That's when things get awkward. "I'm just k-kidding. Although I am r-really f-freaking hun-ngry."

Roland scoots away from me a bit. "Same."

"I'm also pretty t-thirsty."

—

Eventually, we realize food isn't just going to fall out of the sky and go hunting, despite the fact neither of us have any weapons.

"Any good with edible plants?" Roland whispers as we try to tiptoe through the island, trying not to scare away any game.

I think about it. "Sort of."

"Keep an eye out for berries, then," he says, and I nod.

Like most things, it comes out of no where. Darting out from the trees, a dragon—the reptile, not the extinct fire-breather—scurries past us.

"G-get it!" I shout, mouth salivating at the thought of lizard.

Roland dives, barely grasping the end of the tail. "Got it."

—

We both stare at the dead lizard. "How are we going to eat it?" Roland asks after a while. "I don't think lizards have meat."

"They d-don't. You can still e-eat them though."

"Yay," Roland mutters sarcastically, picking up the lizard with a grimace. "Bon appetite." Plugging his nose, he takes a small bite out of the lizards side. We don't have any matches to light a fire, so we have to eat it raw.

"H-how is it?" I ask, tentative, as he swallows the minuscule bite.

Roland looks green. "Without a doubt the worst thing I have ever eaten in my entire life."

"S-suddenly I'm not s-so hungry," I say, but pick up the lizard anyways. Oh God. Am I really going to eat this? My stomach growls, and I sigh. Humans are such slaves to their bodies, I think, before ripping a bite off its side.

It's worse then I thought it would be; I can taste the scaly green skin, like chewy chicken. With a barely suppressed gag, I swallow, shuddering as it slithers down my throat.

* * *

**Ava Weese POV (10)**

After my fiasco with the water, I can't fall back asleep. Instead I scoot farther back onto the beach, too scared to hide out in the dark, noisy island behind me.

—

I don't even notice the white parachute that floats down from the sky, landing gently in the dry sand next to me. I stare at in delighted disbelief for a moment before unwrapping the foil, revealing a still warm roll. It's about the size of my fist, but I can already tell it's Capitol bread—soft, and doughy.

It takes all of my willpower not to shove the entire thing in my mouth now. Instead, I nibble a small bit from the side, savoring the taste. Then, with my stomach protesting, I wrap the rest of the roll in the foil and stare at it.

Someone spent their money—a lot of their money—to give me this. They didn't have to. No one made them. And yet they sent it anyways.

I'm touched.

Tilting my face upwards, I hold out the roll and say, sincere, "Thank you." Just knowing that someone out there is rooting for me to win gives me a warm feeling, and I realize I don't want to let them down.

—

With daybreak comes a new obstacle.

I'm just about to take another nibble of my bread when I see a flash of color out of my peripheral vision.

My heart almost stops. Skin sallow and gray, body parts awkwardly stitched back together, I know exactly who this is.

Ant.

Even though I knew what the Capitol was planning on doing to him—to everyone who dies—seeing it in person is infinitely worse.

I turn to run, but something keeps me standing there. This is Ant. This is my _ally. _Surely he ... surely, even in death, he wouldn't attack me? Right?

He's so close I can see the way he runs, lopsided, like one leg is longer than the other. Still I stand there, heart pounding, mouth dry.

"Ant," I plead. "It's me, Ava. You know me."

Ant doesn't stop, and I shriek when he gets within five feet of me. Rushing to get out of the way, I shout, "No! Bad Ant, bad!"

I don't know what it is, but Ant stops. His head tilts to one side, like a dog. Inspired, I hold out the foil of bread. "Is Ant hungry? Is that why you're acting like a crazy person?"

Ant shuffles to one side, looking confused. Or as confused as a zombie could look, anyways.

"Do you want some bread?" I ask, voice gentle. Slowly, I open the foil and rip a piece off the roll, holding it out in my palm.

Ant stares and stares and stares, leaving me to feel silly and unsure and scared— but this is _Ant_, he wouldn't hurt me—and, eventually, he takes the bread out of my palm. He puts it in his mouth. He chews.

"That's a good boy," I coo, talking to him like I would a baby, or puppy. "See, I knew you were good, I knew—"

I scream as he charges me again. Plowing into me, we both fall back onto the sand. Ant bares his teeth, revealing sparkling chompers, and I choke out through the fear, "Ant, _no_!"

Ant stops, and I wiggle out from under his grip. Maybe he only needs someone to tell him what to do; maybe he's scared, too.

* * *

Wow, no deaths this chapter. Surprised?

Maya—angry  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless  
Seraphina—dreamer  
Weston—energetic  
Maren—upbeat  
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna—sweet  
Ezra—mature  
Toris—shy  
Liesl—intelligent  
Crayne—mysterious  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava—adorable  
Roland—timid  
Kimberly—withdrawn  
James—kind (except to the Capitol) 

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	24. Day Two Part Two, A Little Bit Crazy

A/N: Sorry for the wait guys. I just ... haven't felt like writing lately & this chapter gave me hell. Hope you enjoy despite the long delay.

Disclaimer: I wish.

* * *

**The 125th Hunger Games  
Day Two Part Two, A Little Bit Crazy  
**

* * *

**Jameson Smith Hender POV (12) **

After checking to make sure Kaaya's actually dead and not just asleep on the floor, we bolt. I can't run fast enough, put enough distance between myself and Kaaya's mangled body. I can hear Kimberly sobbing from behind me but don't stop to ask if she's okay.

We haven't been running long before Katalina stops us, gritting her teeth and pointing to her now swollen ankle, crusty with blood. With a jolt I realize I'd forgotten about her encounter with the crocodile. "If I keep running it'll just get worse."

"Shoot Katalina, sorry, I forgot."

Kimberly mumbles out something I suppose is supposed to be agreement.

"Don't say sorry dip-wad, this isn't your fault. Let's just make camp for the night."

I try not to look too disappointed; I'm starving, my throat dry. It hurts to swallow. "Alright."

Wiping tears off her face, Kimberly's frown deepens. "Can't we go look for food? I'm starving."

"Oh, sure," Katalina drawls. "Let's just go eat some of those fruit and see how long we stick around before the monkboons show up and kill us."

"We have to eat at some point," Kimberly shoots back. "Unless you want to die of starvation."

Looking extremely unconcerned, Katalina picks at a piece of dried blood on her arm. With a lurch of my stomach I realize it's probably Kaaya's. "The first day isn't even over yet. Tomorrow we'll find food and water. Unless of course you'd like to go scavenging in the dark."

The forest is silent, and so dark that I can barely see ten feet in front of me. Kimberly looks around, folds her arms over her chest, and looks unhappy. "Fine. First thing tomorrow."

—

Hours into the next morning, and still we've yet to find anything we don't think eating will get us killed. I don't want to say anything, but I'm beginning to regret coming into the forest. We lost Kaaya, eating the food apparently summons rabid monkboons, and there's no water in sight.

Katalina glares at me like she knows what I'm thinking, and I shrug, look away. Katalina's a lot different than I thought she would be. Meaner, more independent. To be honest I'm not even sure why she wanted to ally with us. I remember what Ava tried to tell us—that the whole thing was an act, a trick. I thought she was paranoid at the time.

Now ...

Now I don't know.

Shaking myself out of my internal reveries, I look behind my shoulder. With Katalina in front and Kimberly in the middle, I keep checking to make sure nothing is following us.

Kimberly slows down, starts whispering to me. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Me too," she says with a sigh, speeding up again. "Katalina—um, you do know where you're going, right?"

Tossing her somehow still sleek hair over one shoulder, Katalina scoffs. "No. I've never been here before. How should I know where we're going?"

She has a point, but from the tensing of her shoulders, I don't think Kimberly is happy with her response. "Then where are you leading us?"

Katalina shrugs. "No clue."

"_What!_" Kimberly sounds so indignant it's almost humorous.

Stopping, Katalina turns around, arching an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."

"Well—yes, I am!"

Laughing, Katalina starts limping again. I notice her ankle looks even worse. "I'm looking for a pond, a lake, some kind of water."

The ground beneath us is hard, compact earth. Not muddy. So we aren't even close.

"You're ridiculous," the usually docile Kimberly snaps. It must be the hunger. "Absolutely ridiculous."

"Kimberly," I try and console. "It's the Capitol you should be mad at, not Katalina."

"Can't I be mad at both?"

—

Judging by the sweltering heat and sudden appearance of pesky gnats who bite at my arms, I'm guessing it's about noon. I'm not sure though—it's hard to think about anything but water. Even the gnawing pains in my stomach are blocked out by a desperation for water.

No one talks—it hurts too much.

Stumbling along the forest, it's all I can do put one foot in front of the other. Katalina even trips a few times, cussing out crocodiles and roots and the humid heat.

"Sponsors," Kimberly mumbles eventually. "Maybe send water."

Katalina snorts. "Don't count on sponsors. It'll get you killed."

On cue, a small white parachute floats down through the trees, and, despite her lackluster approach to them not even ten seconds ago, Katalina makes a mad dive for the package. "Oh. It's just food." She holds up a cellophane package of cheese crackers.

"That's good though," I think aloud. "It means water is near, otherwise they wouldn't have sent food."

"Maybe." Katalina looks grudgingly impressed. "Or maybe their just sadists."

Kimberly swats a fly on her arm, rubs her eyes. "Find water ... first."

Pushing through a cluster of overgrown branches, packages in hand, Katalina beckons us forward. "Let's go."

—

Water.

Sweet, sweet water.

It's not much—just a small lake, filled with blue water so clear I can see the pebbles at the bottom and the fish gliding through the underwater plants.

"I love you," Kimberly blubbers to an ecstatic Katalina. "Clean water, I could cry right now—"

I drop to my knees, scoop a handful of water in my palms and tilt my head back—for a brief moment I wonder if it's poisoned, safe—before guzzling down the liquid. It seriously takes all of my willpower not to moan in relief.

After getting our fill of the cold water, Katalina opens the pack of crackers. "Two for each of us."

Handing me my two crackers, I start to nibble on the edge of one, feeling content. The cheese is melted and the crackers brittle, but I've never enjoyed a meal before. I turn around to thank Katalina for helping us find water and almost pee my pants in shock. She's writhing on the floor in pain as Kimberly stands over her, bloodied knife in hand.

"What—"

Kimberly turns to me, face distorted, smile stretched and shiny. "You're next."

Suddenly the monkboons from before burst out of the forest and into our clearing, dressed in hula skirts and coconut bras. "It's conga time!"

I scream in horror before diving into the lake, but it's not water anymore—I'm swimming in a pool of spaghetti, the noodles tangling around my arms and legs. "Stop playing with your food," Katalina says from her spot on the floor, blood bubbling on her lips. "It's bad manners."

* * *

**Seraphina Halliwell POV (3)**

I don't think Weston is well—he's even more hyper than usual.

"Hey, Seraphina, did you know I can curl my tongue?" He starts laughing hysterically. "Can you curl your tongue? I heard cows can't curl their tongues. Feel bad for 'em. Wish I had a cow right now. I'd eat it. Man I'm hungry. Did you know I heard two Peacekeepers saying there was cannibalism in Twelve? I wonder what humans taste like."

"Weston ... maybe we should stop. You seem tired."

He jumps around, breaks a branch off a low tree. "Tired? I've never felt more wired! I could run a marathon." Weston takes off, sprinting into the trees. "I'm winning!"

I count to five before following him. "Let's rest."

"No _way_," he calls back, jogging over to me. "We gotta get outta here. This place sucks. It smells worse than a public restroom."

No arguing that one. "Yeah, but I'm really tired. Do you mind if we stop—just for an hour or so? Please?"

Weston slings an arm around my shoulder. "Sure thing Sera. Do you mind if I call you Sera? How about Phina? Oh, I know! I'll call you Sparky."

" ... Sparky?" I shake my head in amusement. "We can talk about nicknames _after _we relax."

Plopping down on the ground, he closes his eyes for longer than a blink. "Huh. Maybe I am a bit tired."

I half-smile. "Maybe."

Ten seconds later and he's out.

I knew he'd get slap-happy from not sleeping—the same thing happens to my sisters when they decide to stay up all night. They either spend the next day alternating between bouncing off the walls and bursting into tears or fall asleep at the breakfast table. Feeling nostalgic, I fiddle with the matches.

Home. I know I'm not coming back. Even though the thought gives me goosebumps, it's unavoidable. Even if Weston and I manage to get to the final two, I wouldn't kill him. He's a good kid—deserves more than just his name on a tombstone, his body in a box.

I wonder how I'm going to die. If it'll be quick, painless. Knowing the Games, probably not. I hope it won't be at the hands of one of the Careers. I hope my family doesn't seem my death. I hope they don't cry too much.

The more immediate problem, however, is how we're going to get out of this swamp. To be honest I haven't a clue where we are, and I know Weston doesn't either.

Because my thoughts are too much for me to handle, I stare up at the sky—not the real sky of course, this is all genetically engineered, I know this isn't Nature—and relish the feel of heat on my back.

—

I wake Weston up a few hours later. I know he'll still be tired and I feel awful for bothering him, but we need to get a move on. Daylight only lasts so long.

"HuhwhuzgoinonMom?" Shaking his head and blinking sleep out of his eyes, Weston looks at me, disoriented.

"Morning sleepy head."

Looking uncharacteristically embarrassed, Weston stands up and winces. "Ah, sorry. I probably should have slept last night."

"It's alright," I wave off his apology. "You feel better now?"

"Other than the fact I'm starving and pretty damn close to drinking my own pee, yeah. You?"

I start walking. "Fine."

—

"I don't think we're ever going to get out of here," Weston groans. "We've been here so long I'm starting to get used to the smell."

I look around, try to remember if we've been here before. Everything looks the same though, so it's hard to tell. "Tell me about it."

"Well, if you insist. I'd say it smells like a combination of the slop my mom makes for dinner and mud that's been left out to rot and then rubbed in a puddle of armpit sweat."

I laugh, then realize something. "Wait, why would you know what that smells like?"

Weston looks shifty. "No reason. Hey, look! A gift."

Looking up, I notice he's right—another sponsor gift floats down, and I catch it.

"I hope it's food and water," Weston pleads. "I really, really hope it's food and water."

Unraveling the white cloth, Weston cheers from beside me. It's a roll of bread the size of my fist and a small canteen of something, probably water.

"Dude, our sponsors rock!"

I rip off a small nibble of the roll, grainy and warm in my mouth, and heartily agree.

* * *

**Ezra Samuels POV (5)**

Thus far, things have been calm for Liesl and I. After our brief alliance with Jenna, we decided to stay low and look for something to eat. With a handful of berries we found that Liesl knew were safe to eat and a few coconuts worth of milk to drink, we made camp at the base of a palm tree and hung out.

Liesl doesn't talk much, but when she does, it's always to say something interesting.

"The Capitol is probably planning something," I say, leaning against the base of the tree and popping a few berries in my mouth. "We'll have to be on guard."

"Yeah."

Okay, so _usually _she has something interesting to say.

"This isn't as bad as I thought it'd be," I admit. "If we can just hide out here people will probably—"

Raising a hand, Liesl shushes me. I freeze, my heart starting to pound. "Did you hear that?" she asks, voice a harsh whisper.

I shake my head no just as someone bursts into view, and my stomach just about drops out of my butt. It's the Career from Two.

Not even sparing me a glance, Liesl scrambles to her feet and starts running.

"You're not going anywhere," Two taunts. He pulls his arm back and throws a spear about the length of his arm, tip a gray flinty stone. It gets Liesl right in the leg, and she collapses with a pained cry.

Spurred into action, I half-shout, "Liesl, _run_," before Two slams into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs as I fall against the floor, smacking my head on the base of the tree.

"This'll be fun," Two says, and he sounds so earnest I almost throw up.

I thrash under his grip, try to wriggle out from underneath him. But it's like trying to pick up a car. Even with my strength, he's as solid as a tank, laughing at my feeble attempts.

Unsheathing a short blade, he grins before plunging it into the bone between my neck and shoulder and pain erupts everywhere and I try to scream but it comes out a strangled wheeze. He pulls back his arm, licks my blood off the blade of the knife. "Hm. A bit saltier then I thought it would be."

Looking to the side, I notice Liesl is gone, a puddle of blood on the floor the only sign she was here. At least she's still alive, although I feel selfishly upset she didn't try to stick around and help.

Two traces a thin cut on my wrist, chuckles at the look of intense pain on my face. I just want this to end, I give up, I'll die, _please_ just make it quick.

"It's gonna be a long day," Two promises, and I'm not even afforded the luxury of passing out before he starts to peel back my fingernails, cut off each individual finger, carve his name into my face.

I shudder as tears and blood drip down my face.

My name is Pain.

* * *

Maya—angry  
Katalina—independent  
Drampton—ruthless  
Seraphina—dreamer  
Weston—energetic  
Maren—upbeat  
Skippy—lively (when he's not throwing up, that is)  
Jenna—sweet  
Toris—shy  
Liesl—intelligent  
Crayne—mysterious  
Steve—wall-flower  
Ava—adorable  
Roland—timid  
Kimberly—withdrawn  
James—kind (except to the Capitol)

Thanks!  
- Alactricity


	25. Apology

I figure I owe anybody who ever actually read this story an apology. As you can probably tell, it's been abandoned, and I would delete the story except I want to leave it up as a reminder to myself to not post stories on the internet if I'm not going to be serious about it.

There's not much to say except sorry, sorry, sorry, and that hopefully it was at least interesting back when I posting. If I ever do post another story - and let's it face it, I probably will - I doubt it will be for this fandom.

Thanks to everybody who reviewed, or read, and again, I'm sorry, but I just can't get into this story again.

- Alactricity


End file.
